Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (19 page)

His hands reach for it, but despite its sluggish appearance, the entity shoots up toward the lights.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Necromancer. I won’t be captured so easily. Besides, I’ve marked my choice. See for yourself.”

Malcolm turns slowly, almost reluctantly. “No, no. You can’t do this to her. She has no idea—”

“All the more fun for me, then. Thank you, Necromancer. You’ve played your part brilliantly in all this. And, Katy?”

I crane my neck. One vent appears darker than the rest, more sinister. Once again, something flutters. Bed sheets. Bridal veils. The taste of metal against my tongue.

“I’ll be seeing you soon.”

With the entity’s final words, the speakers burst back to life, music blaring. Colored lights flash. The disco ball above our heads throws out a million fake stars. The club doors open and people rush the stage, footsteps and bass thumping the floor. I can feel the crunch of broken glass in my jaw. Only now do fumes from the alcohol fill the air, mixed with the odor of a hundred bodies.

I don’t search for Malcolm. I don’t know what I’d say to him. I don’t know what to think about him. Or this. Or anything. I push against people forcing their way onto the dance floor, grabbing elbows and shoulders to leverage myself out of this space. If I can leave this space, I can figure things out. If I can leave this space, it will all start to make sense.

When the cold air of outside strikes my face, I’m no closer to understanding anything but this: I must get away.

I run. Footfalls sound behind me. I think I hear my name. I don’t look back. I don’t slacken my pace. There’s a train at the light rail station. I don’t care what line or where it’s going. I slip through the doors just as they’re closing.

I’m without a ticket, without my partner, without a plan. I press a hand against the glass of the door and peer out in time to see Malcolm stumble to a halt, brace his hands against his knees. He looks up, mouths my name.

And then he’s gone.

* * *

Eventually, I stagger to a seat. I dig through my bag and pull out my ticket. I clutch my talisman, although I doubt it’s much of one. My ride time has expired. I scan the aisle, hoping there’s no conductor on this train. A few people occupy seats in front of mine. A group of college-age kids lounge behind me, in the very back of the train.

I don’t relax so much as pull in a full breath—at last. I’m on the Green Line, headed toward St. Paul. St. Paul. Where the State Fairgrounds are. I pull out my phone.

A flurry of missed calls and text messages assault me the moment I switch on the power. That number I assume is Jack’s. Malcolm’s number and a series of text messages, all frantic and popping up much faster than I can read them.

Katy, please...

I can explain...

It’s not what you think...

That last is a lie. I have no idea what to think, not about tonight or about him. I ignore all this and open up the map. The State Fairgrounds are on Snelling Avenue, about two miles from the Snelling Avenue station, which is two stations up ahead. Plan in mind, I tuck the phone back into my bag. That slight movement kicks up scents from the club, the aroma heavy with beer. I reek. This might explain why no one has sat near me.

Then I catch my reflection in the window. There’s something on my cheek, right where the entity touched me. I press my fingertips against the spot, and they come away chilled. I rub, but the spot remains. I can’t tell what it is, but I can tell this:

Other people notice it.

At the Snelling Avenue station, I step off the train. I study the traffic, the pedestrians, but I see no sign of Malcolm. Will he follow on the next train? Double back to get his car and follow that way? My destination is a fairly obvious one. I check my phone. After that initial flurry, his messages have stopped. My first—irrational—thought is: I hope he’s okay.

I give myself a shake and brace for the long trek to the fairgrounds.

* * *

I’m halfway there when the idea of a taxi makes more and more sense. Of course, now that I’m halfway there, a taxi is no longer an option. I tuck my hands under my arms to ward off the chill as best I can. My over-the-knee stockings keep slipping, reminding my legs that it is very much October and I very much live in Minnesota. My Mary Janes are more sensible than sexy, but they’re not made for hiking.

I am alone, after dark, in a strange city.

I am certifiably an idiot.

Someone approaches me, an older man, stocky, but I tense. That could be muscle, not fat. He might not be fast, but he could be strong. Something predatory flickers in his eyes, but the moment his gaze lands on my cheek, it vanishes. Despite the traffic, the man steps into the gutter when he passes me. Horns blare. Even so, he gives me a wide berth.

I stop and stare after him, fingertips on the spot on my cheek. I need a mirror, I think. I need to get to the State Fairgrounds. I need ... a bodyguard?

Two sprites swirl around me. When, exactly, I picked them up, I can’t say. Have they been following me since the station? The club?

“Hello, you two,” I whisper into the night.

Yes, they plan to travel with me. In fact, they insist I start my trek again with a bit of nudging against my shoulder blades. So I do. With the sprites urging me on, I make it to the fairgrounds in time to slip through the gates before closing.

* * *

I’m holding what might be the worst cup of coffee ever brewed. But since it’s the warmest thing I’ve encountered in the last ten hours, I’m grateful. The sprites dip and dive in the steam rising from the coffee’s surface. They shudder, and the steam breaks apart. The heat of it doesn’t reach my face, but then, neither does the aroma. This makes it easier to drink.

“If you’re ever in Springside,” I tell the sprites, “I’ll brew you some Kona blend.”

They whirl around my head before shooting off into the crowd that’s gathering by the exhibition hall doors. They will cause trouble today, I’m certain. But with them gone, I’m free to sip the coffee, warm my bones, and scan the area for Malcolm.

And if I see him?

I take another sip of coffee and burn my tongue.

Even though I spent the night hidden in the skeletal shadows of amusement park rides, I am not the first in line for the Military Relic Show. People glance my way before averting their gaze. I don’t know if it’s because I look like I’ve spent the night outside or if the spot on my cheek remains. I still haven’t had a chance to inspect it or my face. My first stop once inside the doors will be the restroom.

When at last I confront my image in the mirror, I’m not sure what to make of it. Something blue and iridescent swirls beneath the surface of my skin. Its pattern is like that of a hurricane seen from above. The clouds of blue shift and grow thicker before thinning out. It’s a slow movement. I must concentrate in order to track it. If there’s a message in the pattern, I can’t decipher it, although I spend several minutes with my nose grazing the mirror trying to do so.

When someone enters the restroom, I jerk back, heart thudding. Since I can’t make the thing on my cheek go away, I must make do, and I must find Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart. With caution, I ease open the door to the lobby area and scan the crowd for that gleaming ebony hair. Malcolm is tall. He should be easy to spot.

I don’t see him and swallow back equal doses of relief and disappointment.

The woman who sells me a ticket for the show darts looks at my cheek. The line is growing behind me, and she counts out change one bill at a time, her gaze always lighting on my cheek. The question fills the space between us.

“It’s a tattoo,” I say when the silence—and the line—goes on for too long.

“Oh ... wow.” She gives it an appraising once-over. “Wicked.”

Yes, I think, it really is.

I walk into the exhibition hall, the enormity of it striking me all at once. Malcolm was right. It will be nearly impossible to find Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart, but not because hundreds of vendors crowd the room. Finding a single ghost, even in a space this large, wouldn’t be too difficult, especially one with such a distinctive personality.

No, it’s the number of ghosts attached to all the items in this particular space. Old items with old ghosts. The air is thick with that telltale glimmer. Some people might mistake the closeness in the room for poor ventilation. I know better. Other than the time the ghosts of Springside gathered in my house, I’ve never felt so many spirits in one place.

Some are sullen, heavy things. Others careen frantically around their displays. Some are attached to the person working the booth. Some scare away potential customers, their presence making the air so unpleasant that people skirt the displays filled with medals and other memorabilia.

Except for me. I snag a few business cards. Maybe instead of waiting for the haunted to come to us, we should go to them. We. I freeze, the cards chafing my palm. Me and Malcolm. Is there a
we
anymore? Are we still partners? I glance over my shoulder but still see no sign of him.

I travel the aisles, all manner of apparitions surging forward as if to greet me. There is only one ghost I want. Even if I find it, I’m not sure what the next step is. I catch and release. I’ve never captured and returned before.

Then something familiar swirls around my face. This is a ghost I know. This ghost is not so old—at least in ghost terms—and not melancholy.

“How...?” I begin, but clamp my mouth shut. I’m already the girl with the freaky tattoo. I don’t need to add
girl who talks to herself
to the list.

My grandmother swirls and nudges, swirls and nudges, leading me to Mr. Carlotta’s medal. We arrive at a vendor who specializes in World War Two memorabilia, a woman who calls herself G.I. Joan. I’m pretty sure this is not her real name.

Her face lights up when I approach her booth. More than one ghost haunts her or her items—it’s hard to tell with so many of them whirling in this space. But it’s Mr. Carlotta’s ghost that’s scaring away customers. It thickens the air around the booth. Each breath is a chore. It’s as if the glow from the overhead lights must fight to illuminate the items on the tables.

“How’s business today?” I ask.

Joan gives me a wan smile. “You’re my first. Is there something I can help you find?”

“My grandfather collects World War Two stuff,” I say, “and his birthday is coming up. Do you have anything from World War Two?”

I’ve parked myself in front of a Pearl Harbor commemorative plate, so clearly she does. It’s such a stupid thing to ask, but considering I’m in last night’s skater skirt and have a swirling tattoo on my cheek, I figure I look less than erudite. Also? My credit card has a limit, one I’m dangerously close to. I can’t act like I want the one item I so desperately need.

Joan pulls out several things to entice me: canteens and lighters, an equipment belt, a hat.

“What about medals?” I ask. “He likes medals.”

Joan holds several in her cupped palms. None of them the Purple Heart. I want to confess that I can see all the ghosts. I want to tell her that if she sells me the Purple Heart, business will pick up. The other ghosts here are mild or apathetic—or both.

My grandmother whips around, nudging me toward the Purple Heart as if I can’t see it. At last, I give in.

“What about this?” I point to Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart. “That looks awesome.”

“It’s really more for the serious collector. I was hoping—”

And I don’t have time. “How much?”

She rattles off a price, and my mind blanks. I keep my mouth shut, so neither
yes
nor
no
will pop out. I try to visualize my balance. Can I afford this? If G.I. Joan runs my card through her reader, will it come back declined?

Before I can respond, she says, “Well, I guess I can knock fifty off of that.”

I shut my eyes, resigned to the whole exercise all over again. My mind is foggy from lack of sleep, and I’ve grown lazy with Malcolm as my partner. I never calculate anything in my head anymore, not with him around.

“Okay.” Joan sighs as if she’s about to make a great concession. “How about seventy-five off the asking price? I can’t go any lower than that.”

That should work. Or at least, it’s worth the risk. From my bag, I pull my credit card and hand it over to her. My throat tightens, and my lungs feel as if they’re taking in molasses. This last, though, is the fault of Mr. Carlotta’s ghost. It has oozed its way over to me. It fills the space around my head and shoulders. Miffed, my grandmother’s ghost bats against it. This thing? It doesn’t care.

“Just sign here,” Joan says.

I startle at her voice, not sure what she wants. Pen. Receipt. I release a sigh of my own and sign my name.

“Be careful with this,” she says to me while wrapping my purchase. “It’s not just a collector’s item, but a significant part of someone’s life. See that?” She points to a pin attached to the award. “That’s an oak leaf cluster. That means he was wounded more than once.”

I sway a bit, but manage a nod. “I didn’t know.”