Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (26 page)

The entity reforms, again into the shape of a man, more like Malcolm than ever before.

“Well, my dear, it seems we’ve returned to the status quo.”

“Status quo?”

“Where I am.... sated by a willing sacrifice. Do you know who my last willing sacrifice was?”

That cold dread invades my stomach. I don’t want to ask. I’m certain I don’t want to know. Either way, I can’t speak. I shake my head.

“Your grandfather. And do you know why I remained dormant for so long?”

Again, I go with a headshake.

“Your grandmother’s tremendous love for him. She never wavered. Unusual. Humans are normally so fickle.”

That bed sheet flutters in dismissal, as if this thing could flick away every last one of us.

“Her love alone kept the pact secure for decades, but when she died, so did its hold on me. Null and void, as they say.”

And that was when things started to change. I shut my eyes.

“Yes, indeed they did,” the entity says. “And now? Do you know what your love for Malcolm is like, Katy?”

I don’t know because I haven’t even given the feeling that name, not yet.

“It’s quite beautiful, like a tender spring sapling. Oh, but so young! So weak! One gust of wind.”

The entity expands again, a whoosh of stale, icy air flowing over me. Then the thing oozes forward, touches the spot on my cheek that I know—even now—remains.

“I won’t say goodbye, my dear, because I’ll be seeing you again very soon. Until then, I’ll be anticipating our next meeting.”

The entity solidifies into that silhouette of a handsome man. It brings what looks like fingertips to its lips and blows a kiss. The resulting sting flashes across my cheek.

Then, much like Malcolm did, the thing vanishes. I am on the floor, still on my hands and knees, uncertain I have the power to stand.

* * *

For several seconds, no one moves. I’m not sure any of us dare to breathe more than quick, quiet breaths. I want to paw the floor where Malcolm stood, but I know it’s no use. He’s gone. I let that thing take him. I was too slow. And now? What do I do now? How do I explain this to Nigel? That cold dread in the pit of my stomach moves to my heart.

The chime of the doorbell makes us all jump. Rajeev stumbles to the front entrance and flings open the door.

“Trick or treat!”

The air that rushes inside is free of rain but drenched in the aroma of late autumn. Wood smoke and dying leaves. Someone, somewhere, is playing “Monster Mash” loud enough for all of us to hear the words. Children screech. Parents laugh.

It’s the status quo.

From behind me, Gregory B. Gone springs up. “Tell me we got that on video!”

He rushes toward Tim, who takes a few faltering steps backward. A trail of blood follows the lines of Gregory’s face. The right lens of his glasses is shattered in a star pattern. He grips the cameraman’s shirt, a man desperate.

“Tell me, please tell me we got that on video.” Gregory glances around, frantic. “Tell me we streamed it. Tell me—”

Rajeev fires up a laptop. “No streaming, at least,” he says. “It looks like the feed cut out right when that ... thing appeared.”

“Damn.” Gregory whirls again on Tim. “Well?”

“I was filming the whole time, but I don’t know what I have.”

The three of them huddle over the camera. A few members of the crew stand and stare. Some simply wander outside with bags of candy. No one bothers to check on Terese, not even the EMT. I crawl toward her. She is still a plaster-covered lump on the floor, and worry eats at me.

How big of a toll did that thing take on her? Her chest rises and falls, so there is that, at least.

“Terese?” I say, keeping my words soft. “Are you okay?”

She stirs, pushes against the floor, but her arms quake. I catch her hands. Slowly, together, we inch her to sitting. Terese stares at me, her eyes enormous. Her hair is pure white. Not artifice, as I thought before, but fact.

“It wanted you,” she says. “I couldn’t stop it.”

“How did it ... I mean, do you remember what happened?”

She surveys the living area, eyes blinking, gaze confused. It’s clear this is the first time she’s truly seen it. “A few nights ago, I was conducting a séance.”

Oh, those are always a bad idea.

“I often do one before a show,” Terese continues. “I made contact with the other side, but this time...”

“It was the entity?”

“Yes. The rest is murky.” She reaches out as if to touch my left cheek but is smart enough to pull her hand back before it grazes the iridescent blue spot. “But it wasn’t after me. It wanted you.”

“I should’ve known,” I said. “You kissed both my cheeks. Were you trying to warn me or did it just slip up?”

She shakes her head, eyes brimming with moisture. Maybe that was an unfair question. I struggle to my feet and offer Terese my hand.

“What do you mean, it’s not on video?” Gregory bellows. “We have the show of the century—no, the show of the millennium—and it’s not on video? On audio? Did we get anything at all?”

Tim is jabbing a keyboard, mouthing soundless words, and shaking his head. Gregory paces and storms, hands alternately clutching his hair and hapless members of the tech crew. Between the blood on his face and the manic jerking of his limbs, he is fearsome. He whirls. I suspect his next target is me. Before I can dodge his questions or escape the house, a sharp whistle cuts through all the noise.

“This is the Springside Township Police Department! You are all in violation of the law. You have fifteen minutes to vacate the premises.”

Police Chief Ramsey is standing in the doorway, bullhorn in one hand and nightstick in the other. While I can believe he’ll gladly use the one, I can’t imagine him resorting to the other. Officer Millard is standing behind him holding a Taser, so perhaps what I believe doesn’t match this new reality.

Gregory charges forward. “I have permission to be here, from the owners. I am ridding this space of malignant spirits so the family may—”

“The Springside Bank owns this house,” Chief says. “You’re trespassing, and I’m not joking. Fifteen minutes and then I start arresting people.”

Around me, the stagecraft disintegrates. Velvet curtains cascade to the floor. Two of the crew roll up the carpet. Near the fireplace, Rajeev clutches a broom, his gaze locked on blood-speckled glass.

From the kitchen, I collect our field kit. I dump the coffee and tea down the sink. It’s cold and stale, and the aroma clogs my throat, triggers my gag reflex. For a moment, I clutch the marble countertop. Sweat sprouts along my forehead. I shut my eyes. I yearn for Malcolm’s reassuring hand on my shoulder. If I try hard enough, I’ll feel it. If I try hard enough, he’ll return.

Nothing but the sound of Chief Ramsey’s voice—amplified by the bullhorn—greets my efforts.

I pack the percolator into our field kit. There’s no room for Malcolm’s samovar, so I clutch it to my chest like a life preserver.

Chief grunts at me on my way out. “Funny,” he says. “I’m not surprised to see you here.”

Without a word, I continue down the steps.

“Where’s your partner in crime?” he calls after me.

On the sidewalk, I turn and stare up at him and the house behind him. The green and white Victorian appears benign, like it always has.

“I wish I knew,” I say to Chief.

I walk through the clear night to my truck with the knowledge that I am completely alone.

* * *

I let my truck idle in front of my house and contemplate the light that spills from the kitchen windows. When I finally step onto the walk, a hint of spice and molasses fills the night. I stand there, clutching Malcolm’s samovar to my chest, the metal a dull cold beneath my fingertips and against my heart, trying to fathom what is going on in my home.

There’s one way to find out. I round the house and enter from the back. The moment I open the door, the kitchen wraps me in warmth and spice—nutmeg and clove, and the tang of ginger. Sadie is standing at the oven. She’s wearing a pair of mitts I’m certain I don’t own. Nigel is slipping cookies from a sheet to a cooling rack. Belinda is pouring a mug of something that she hands to me.

“Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just sit down and breathe for a bit.” She steers me to a kitchen chair and with the slightest pressure on my shoulders, has me sitting.

With caution, I bring the mug to my lips. I brace for coffee or tea, not certain I could stand to drink either. Instead, sweet apple cider fills my mouth. I sigh. The apples are tart, the cinnamon smooth and comforting.

“Sadie’s idea,” Nigel says.

Sadie waves an oven mitt as if she could wave away his praise. “After the night you had, I didn’t think you’d want another cup of coffee.”

She’s right about that. I survey the three of them, perplexed. “But the streaming cut out,” I say.

Belinda wakes up the laptop. Frozen on Ghost B Gone’s YouTube channel is the image of Police Chief Ramsey leading Gregory away in handcuffs.

“We don’t know what happened, exactly,” Belinda says, “but someone started filming again.”

She rewinds the video. And yes, there I am, on my hands and knees, my expression shattered. Terese crumpled on the floor. Gregory shouting, arms waving, blood dripping. It’s a jerky, chaotic montage of images and sound. Whoever this enterprising videographer is, they track me with their camera as I leave the house.

So there I am, staring up at Chief Ramsey, telling the entire world I don’t know where Malcolm is.

I glance at Nigel and something inside me fractures. He already knows, and yet, that doesn’t make it any easier. The fact that he—along with Belinda and Sadie—is trying to take care of me makes it hurt that much more. True, I am no longer completely alone. The thought fills a void while easing weight onto my shoulders. I shrug, not used to this new feeling.

“I’m sorry,” I say at last.

“What for?” Nigel holds my gaze, his eyes dark and bright.

“For Malcolm. He’s ... I don’t know. Gone. That thing—”

“Malcolm knew the risks going in.” Nigel rubs his hands across his eyes. They’re dry and red. They hold sorrow I don’t think he dares to speak. “And part of me is petty enough to think he got what he deserved.”

I gape, but Sadie smacks Nigel with one of the oven mitts.

“He’s your brother,” she says, voice indignant. Then she softens. “It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to mourn, even if the other person wasn’t perfect.”

Nigel takes her hand and presses it against his cheek. “Neither one of us is perfect. But yes, my brother—and my rival. It’s the way it works in our family. We were both trying to capture this thing. May the best man win and all that.”

“Why the hell would either of you want to do that?” Belinda’s question echoes my own. She stands, takes my mug, and ladles in more cider.

“Power. Wealth. Lifelong security.” Nigel gives Sadie’s hand a squeeze and lets go. “A powerful enough necromancer could ... harness that entity. It’s an exchange, but one with rules. At the end of the agreed upon time, there’s a parting. It’s risky, no doubt. But we both thought it would be worth the risk.”

“What do you give it in exchange?” I ask.

“That’s part of the deal you hammer out once you capture it.” Nigel shrugs. “Honestly? It’s not like some sort of demonic possession. And it’s not like these things are sex-crazed.”

Belinda snorts. Sadie’s cheeks flush a deep pink, although that might be from the oven’s heat.

“Often, all they want is to feel again.” Here, even Nigel goes a bit red around the ears. “So, yeah. Sex, maybe. But just moving around, walking, eating. When I had all the ghosts inside me, one of the things they all loved was when I went running.” He turns to me now. “It’s why they love your coffee, Katy. The steam gives them a bit of substance, and the aroma and flavor make them feel ... almost human.”

“So, both of you,” I say. “From the start. You came here looking for that thing?”

“And we both knew the rules.” Nigel leans forward and grips my hand. “Remember that, Katy. Malcolm knew, absolutely, what he was doing. We both knew that if we couldn’t capture it, our fate wouldn’t be pretty.”

“So a willing sacrifice isn’t the same as capturing this thing?” I say.

“No, not at all.”

“Then what happens to a willing sacrifice?” I’m fairly certain I don’t want to hear the answer, but I ask anyway.

He shakes his head. “No one has ever come back, so no one really knows.”

“Then why did Malcolm—” I begin.

“Honestly, Katy? Don’t you know?”

My gaze falls to the mug of cider. The surface is absolutely smooth until a single drop falls from my cheek and sends ripples against the rim.

“You don’t suppose it would trade.” I say this more to the cider than Nigel. In fact, I nearly hope he won’t hear me.

“What?” His face contorts into a scowl. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but—”

“Nothing, nothing,” I say. “But I wonder. That thing was inside you. You wouldn’t know its name, would you?”