Ashes to Ashes (25 page)

Twenty-Five

WHEN WE EXIT
Thatcher's portal, my eyes have to adjust.

The lighting is dim—mostly candles, flickering in the distance. We seem to be standing at the end of a long hallway. . . .

As our surroundings come into view, I realize where we are.
It's a church.

Despite the chaos of what just happened, I feel an immediate sense of calm and peace. This isn't my church, not the one where we used to go with Mama—but the feeling is familiar nonetheless. On Sundays she'd put on a flowery blouse, let me wear my favorite patent-leather shoes, and help Dad get his tie on straight. I don't remember the sermons, but I remember the way Mama's perfume smelled, and holding Dad's hand as we walked up to our usual pew, halfway down on the left side. But since she died, I've mostly been to worship with Carson's family, and then only on holidays when Dad thought it might be nice for me to be a part of the rituals and traditions of religion, even though I overheard him tell a pastor who came to visit after Mama died that he wasn't sure what he believed anymore.

I see a few figures kneeling up front, heads bowed in prayer. I notice that there are glowing souls here, too—ghosts—like the older man sitting with his hand on the shoulder of the white-haired lady next to him. She's holding a handkerchief up to her face as if she's afraid she'll cry if she lets go. His light surrounds her, though, like he's keeping her safe.

“They're haunting,” I whisper to Thatcher as I gesture in the couple's direction.

“Yes,” he says. “It's the third and final level of haunting—a heart connection. It's creating an internal peace for the Living, one that comes from
them
instead of from the ghost.”

It does look peaceful, the two of them in a soft cocoon of light.

It also feels so far away from where I am—from what I've seen.

“Why am I not a normal ghost?” I ask Thatcher. “Why hasn't it worked that way for me? What was Reena talking about? That she had figured out why I'm special.”

“I'm so sorry, Callie,” he says, his voice a reverential whisper. I guess even ghosts stay quiet in church. “The Guides aren't permitted to interfere when a ghost is like you—we're supposed to teach you to haunt, just in case . . .”

He pauses, and looks me in the eyes. “There's a reason I didn't want you to draw portals on your own. I didn't mean to lie to you. I just didn't want you to come here . . . to learn the truth . . . in case the worst happened.”

I tilt my head. “Reena used your lie as a way to manipulate me. But I still don't understand what you mean by—”

His face hardens as he interrupts me. “You have to believe that I had no idea Reena would use you this way. I never knew that she was capable of . . . whatever it is she's planning.”

“They're taking bodies,” I say.

He shakes his head no. “They're playing with possession,” he says. “But they're not at the stage where they can take over a body yet, not really.”

I bite my lip, not sure how he'll react to what I know. “They mentioned the three levels of the soul,” I say. “Delia said that if they take a body three times, they can somehow . . . stay there?”

Thatcher's face goes ashen, his sharp jaw turns slack, and he buries his head in his hands. When he looks up a moment later, his eyes look far away. “They know,” he says, his voice shaky.

“It's true then?” I ask.

He turns to me, refocusing on my face. “The Guides have known for a long time that possession was possible—it's one of the secrets we're sworn to protect, because if other ghosts knew they could find a body and stay on Earth . . .”

“It would be chaos,” I finish.

“Right,” says Thatcher.

“How did the poltergeists learn about possession?” I ask. I look down, afraid to meet his gaze. “Is it . . . my fault?”

“What?”

“They said it was because of me,” I say. “Because of my energy.”

“No, no . . . ,” says Thatcher, and he inches closer to me on the pew as I look up at him again. “Callie, Reena and Leo have been searching for a way to stay on Earth since the day we died. It's not your fault.”

“They think that if they live again, they'll be able to be with their families,” I tell him. “They promised me that if I joined them, I could stay with the people I love on Earth.”

Thatcher shakes his head.

“No—” I say. “Let me finish. I know that isn't true; I know that's not how it works. But it's an appealing promise, one that will help them recruit more ghosts who refuse to merge with Solus.”

“That's a problem,” says Thatcher.

“We can stop them. Together.” I say it strongly, with conviction, because I mean it with every fiber of my being. I'll stand with Thatcher and the Guides; I'll let them use my energy and my ability to see when a poltergeist is attempting a possession.

Thatcher wraps me up in a hug, and I freeze for a moment. He smells like a summer breeze and fresh-cut grass . . . am I imagining that? I take another deep breath anyway and rest my head on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Then he backs out of the hug and stands up, holding out his hand for me to do the same.

Before I take it, I say, “You have to explain it all to me.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but I stop him. “I know there has to be some sort of Guide order, or something. I know you go somewhere other than your prism when you leave me. I want to see it. I want to be a part of it all.”

“Callie, I—”

“Thatcher,” I interrupt. “No excuses. Just answers.”

He turns his head toward the front of the sanctuary, looking out into the candlelit silence.

When he turns back to me, his face is serious. “You're the only one,” he says, and my heart stops for a moment.

“You're the only ghost we know of who can see when a body is taken,” he continues. And my heart beats again.

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

“We have to track the poltergeists,” says Thatcher, answering my questions before I can ask them. “With you, we'll know when they've attached to a body, so we have a chance to expel them.”

I nod my head. “Go on.”

“It's going to sound crazy,” he says.

“Thatcher, almost everything you say sounds crazy.”

He smiles at me.

“Okay,” he says. “We've talked about how the soul is divided into three parts. All three must be taken before possession can be achieved.”

“Meaning?”

“The poltergeists can't just own a body on the first try,” he says. “It takes longer than that. But each time they enter someone, another piece of the soul is weakened, vulnerable. In order to achieve permanent possession, the poltergeists have to enter the same body three times.”

Carson. Eli.
My palms start to sweat. “What happens after the third time?”

“Then they're able to attach themselves for good. And the host soul is replaced.”

“Replaced?”

“The soul dies,” he says. “The poltergeist permanently owns their body.”

“And the former soul comes to the Prism?”

“No,” says Thatcher, eyeing me carefully. “Souls that are banished from their bodies this way simply disappear. No Prism, no Solus . . . just ash.”

“Ash?”

“They blow away like dust. They cease to exist.”

I drop my head, trying to take this in.

“I told Reena . . . ,” I say, hesitantly looking up at him again. “I told her I thought it was murder.”

“What did she say?” he asks. I can see in his eyes that he doesn't want to believe she's one hundred percent evil.

“She said she wasn't thinking of it like that,” I say, standing. “She said they'll take the bodies of people who won't be missed.”

Suddenly a wave of exhaustion hits, flushing my entire body of energy. I feel like I'm going to fade away into nothingness. I can no longer support myself. I'm collapsing into myself, sinking to the tiled floor. My brain is addled, slowed, and my vision goes blurry. It feels like I might pass out, so I sit back down on the pew.

“What is it?” asks Thatcher as he bends down with me.

“I don't know,” I say meekly. “So . . . tired . . .”

“They must be in your prism,” he whispers, his eyes widening. “They were invited—”

“Only Reena.”

“She might find a way to steal your energy and transfer it to them. They'll just get stronger, and you'll get weaker. Our personal prisms are connected to us. Through your prism, they can drain all your energy. They won't stop until they have you.”

“What do you mean?”

His face flickers with emotion, and I see a tiny tear form in the corner of his eye. With a shaky finger, I reach up to touch it. For once I can read his eyes, full of wanting, long-held yearning, long-denied desire, and he takes my hand, leans in, and plants a single, soft kiss on my lips. My body feels explosive with just one light touch. It's like nothing I've ever experienced.

He steps back for a moment, and he says, “Callie, I—”

But he doesn't finish his sentence; I won't let him—I just press my lips to his, and it isn't like any kiss I've ever had. It's a kiss that feels like it's been written in the stars for a thousand years, like it's filled with right now and yesterday and eternity all at once. It tugs at me with a sadness I can't explain, and in its urgency I hear a warning bell, an alarm—it's as if the fire between us is going to consume the last breaths we'll both take.

I'm melting into him and I can't feel my body. My entire being is tingling with sensation. If ghosts can feel this much, it's almost as good as being alive. Maybe it's better. My thoughts fade as I let myself give in to the pure pleasure of this moment.

When we part, confusion fills my mind like smoke. I feel foggy and lost and warm and chilled to the bone all at once. Because that wasn't just a kiss—it was a revelation.

And I know that in death I've found something true. I wonder if it's the anticipation of this kiss that has weakened me this way. When we part, Thatcher is holding me up. But instead of the elation that I feel, I see despair in his face.

“What is it?” I ask.

“We have to close your prism. It's the only way to save you.”

“What are you talking about?” He doesn't answer, just shoulders my weight as he walks me down the aisle toward the sanctuary exit. It's the first time I don't feel weightless—it's almost like I have my body, my real body, dragging me down. But I go willingly—I'd follow him anywhere. I hold on to him tightly, taking in the Earth once more, knowing that I've made a decision now: I'm leaving my life here behind. I'll fight the poltergeists beside Thatcher, I'll merge with Solus, I'll . . .

The bright lights outside the door startle me. I hear the
click-clack
of sharp shoes on linoleum floors, and I squint as my eyes adjust to blinding fluorescent bulbs. As we walk together down a hallway, I see white coats, green scrubs, metal carts with needles and tubes.

We're at the county hospital—that was the hospital chapel. Thatcher leads me down a hallway, with a purpose in his stride.

I can almost feel how cold it is here, smell the disinfectant.

Thatcher turns down one corridor and then another. He knows exactly where he's going. I wonder at what's happening, but when I try to form the words to ask him, nothing comes out. My energy, it's gone.

I stumble. Thatcher catches me, supports me.

“Not much farther.” His words seem to be encouragement for me, but disappointment for him. I don't understand.

Finally Thatcher urges me into a room, and as we pass through the door I see the back of my dad's proud crew cut; I take in the width of his shoulders as he sits, straight backed, in a chair by the bed.

Who's here?
I wonder, and when I look up at Thatcher with a question in my eyes, he doesn't meet my gaze.

“I wasn't allowed to tell you,” he says solemnly. “I wanted so badly to tell you everything, to explain it all, but it was forbidden.”

He turns his eyes to me then, and I see that his beautiful ocean blues are brimming with tears. “They'll keep coming for you now, and you're so vulnerable—this is the only way I can protect you.”

What?

“Callie, come back to us.” I turn my head sharply at the sound of my father's voice. And as he leans forward in the chair, I catch a glimpse of the girl in the bed as he brushes her hair from her forehead.

My forehead.

I'm in the bed.

Twenty-Six

THATCHER CLOSED HIS EYES
when he did it—when he drove my soul back into my body. He grimaced and released a low groan like he was in pain, and then he grabbed my arms and I felt a hard push this time, not the gentle pull of the tide that led me into the Prism, but a powerful thrust as my body lit up with pain and my mouth froze in a silent scream.
Nooooo!
He forced me to leave him, and I saw his face—tortured, regretful, full of hurt. He'll be alone in death once again, despairing and hopeless and up against impossible enemies who were once his friends. I never got to tell him that with one kiss he sealed my fate and that I'd never leave him. Because he chose for me. He chose my life. One moment he was there, sharp and clear, and then he faded—his energy lost to the strain of what he did for me—disappearing into the darkness without a word.

Beep-beep-beep-beeeeeeep!

I hear buzzing, ringing, the high pitch of machines. My head feels like it's carrying a load of bricks, and I gasp through dry and cracked lips. I thrash about, realizing I'm strapped down to something. A needle tears from my arm and a shooting pain makes its way up through my shoulder. I open my mouth to cry out, but I can't seem to do it. My vision is blurry—all I see are circles of light shining into my eyes.

Slowly, my sight clears. Through a wobbly lens, I see the world in front of me: a nurse, leaning over me and calling frantically for a doctor . . . Carson, clapping her manicured hands together and jumping up and down with excitement . . . Dad, holding my left hand in his and pressing it to his lips, kissing it over and over again.

Am I hallucinating? Did I create a portal to someone's dream?

The physical agony I feel tells me that I can't possibly be in the realm of the Prism, where there was no pain, only a slight buzzing and a fullness of energy. Now I'm depleted, hollowed out and hurting. It feels like I weigh a thousand pounds, and I can't move.

The doctor walks in and asks everyone to clear the room. I hear her speaking swiftly and sternly to my father. She pulls a curtain closed around my bed and leans over me.

“Callie, can you hear me?” she asks.

I try to say yes, but my lips are raw and ruined and my throat feels dry, dust filled, so all that comes out is a burble.

“Blink twice if you understand me,” says the doctor.

I do, and even my eyelashes seem to tingle with pain.

She smiles.

I try to pull myself up, to look through the gap in the curtain for someone I know isn't there.
Thatcher
. He's gone, truly gone. Tears rush to my eyes, and the pressure they create sends a sting through my nose.

“You're awake,” she says. “Take it easy, lie back.”

She looks over at the nurse, who's replacing the IV into my arm.

“That's for fluids,” says the nurse. “Please don't tear it out again.”

I blink back the tears, wondering if I'm crazy, if I've lost him forever. But she just smiles. She sees only that I've blinked twice, agreeing.

“You were in a very serious car accident, Callie,” says the doctor. “You've been in a coma for six weeks. Your family and friends are here, but I want you to rest now before they see you.”

I blink twice, but all I can think is that there's someone missing, there's a dimension that feels gone, wholly and irrevocably gone, from my existence. And this body—this broken, bruised body—its injuries may be nothing compared to what my mind has suffered. Is it fractured? Have I gone mad?

“Good,” she says. “Lie back, relax, and let me get one of my colleagues, okay? I'll let your dad come in in a little while.”

I blink twice.

The doctor walks out, and the nurse pushes the hair off my forehead gently before turning to leave. “Welcome back,” she says on her way out of the room.