Dust to Dust (18 page)

I lean against my father again to steady myself, tears still falling. “Daddy?”

“Yes, Callie May?”

“Thank you for telling me this. But why now? After all this time?”

“Because I want you to know and understand that you are my very special child. You are God's own wonder. You had the strength at six years old to let your mama leave this earth for Heaven's gates. And now, you've returned from a horrible accident that it would take a miracle to awaken from. That's why you've got to take care of yourself more. I don't know what happened today at school, but
you're better than that. You have a higher calling. There's a reason you're on this earth, and it's not so you can fight with people like Eli Winston.”

It's the most words my father's said at once in years. He reaches over to the island counter and hands me a tissue. I blow my nose and dry my eyes.

He's right. And I know he's thinking that my higher purpose is something like starting a nonprofit or being a strong female commander. He's always hoped I'd follow his footsteps into the military. But I'm thinking about the poltergeists. How they're here. How they can possess bodies. How they may kill someone soon. And how if the Guides can't find a way to stop them, then I have to.

I'm washing dishes after dinner when the text comes in. It's from a number I don't know, and it says, “I really need to talk to you about what you're experiencing. Please call.”

Dammit, Carson.
Again? I fire off an angry text to her.

Two seconds later, my phone rings.

“What are you talking about?”

“I just got a text from someone I'm sure is a reporter. It says, ‘I really need to talk to you about what you're experiencing.' Who else would send a text like that?”

“Callie, I haven't talked to anyone in the press since that day you got mad at me. I swear. I—”

There's a pause as she gets a text beep, and then I get one, too. I hold the phone away from my ear to look. Same number, but this time the text says, “I know where the ring is.”

I slowly put the phone back to my ear. “Cars, someone just—”

At the same time, Carson's saying, “Dylan has the ring!”

“Wait—I think we just got the same text,” I say.

Another beep on my phone, and this time the text reads, “This is Dylan Dixon, btw.”

“Carson?” I ask. “Who the hell is Dylan Dixon?”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

DYLAN DIXON IS THE guy from the first day, the one who was staring at me in the hallway just this afternoon. Carson seems to know him a little bit, enough to have him in her phone anyway. “I've been to his family's bookstore,” she told me. He gave us instructions to meet him on Rainbow Row at midnight, and while I am not in the habit of meeting with strangers late at night, I do need that ring back.

So when I sneak out of my window at 11:45 to go to Carson's down the street, I feel guilty, but not enough to stay home.

“How's your shoulder?” Carson asks when I slip into the VW Bug and close the door softly behind me.

“Fine. Expertly patched by Nurse K.”

“Love her.”

“Me, too. She seemed more than a little upset by the fight, I have to say.”

“She always has that faraway sad feeling about her, right?” says Carson, who's always so in tune with people.

“Yeah, but this was different. She kept talking to herself, mumbling something like, ‘It couldn't be him.'”

“Well, it's not every day that a girl-guy fight breaks out on the honors hallway,” says Carson. “I'm sure it was shocking for everyone.”

“True.”

She turns right out of our neighborhood, towards the historic district.

My shoulders tense, and Carson sees it.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

“What if the poltergeists try something again?”

“Hello, that's why I'm driving.”

“I don't mean just messing with my energy—I mean possession. I could be putting you in danger just by being near you.”

Carson smiles. “Let's just get to Dylan's,” she says. “He has that covered.”

I look at her sideways. “Okay, I need more information on this Dylan person.”

Without hesitation, she launches in. “He moved from Seattle last year, his dad grew up in Charleston, his grandparents still live here. I found his family's bookstore this summer while you were . . .”

“In a coma,” I fill in. “You can say it.”

“Right, in a coma.” She looks at me as we pull up to a red light and stop.

“What?” I ask her.

She sighs. “I don't want you to get all weird.”

“About what?”

The light changes to green and she says, “He's really into the other side, too.”

“Ghost stuff?”

“Yes,” she says. “He knows a ton more than I do even, and he's been fascinated by you since you got back to school.”

I frown, and she catches it. “Not in a weird way!” she says. “Callie, he seems cool. And the bookstore is amazing.”

I look out the passenger-side window and watch the streetlights cast shadows across the car as we drive slowly down the empty late-night road. Sometimes Carson is too trusting for her own good. Then again, sometimes I'm not trusting enough.

When we pull up to the main tourist strip of Rainbow Row, I start to get antsy. Why here, in one of the most supposedly haunted parts of Charleston? Is this guy just a crazy ghost hunter?

Carson must see the doubt in my eyes because she says, “It'll be fine.” And then she opens her door.

We step out of the car and onto the cobblestone street. Our footsteps echo on the empty walk, and it's extra eerie because this area is usually crowded with tourists.

Carson stops in front of two row houses—pink and green. “There,” she whispers.

I look to where she's pointing, and I see that there is a tiny,
narrow alleyway in between the two homes—one that I've never noticed before.

“I thought they were all row houses,” I say. “With no space in between.”

“That's what you're supposed to think,” she says, and I can hear the glee in her voice at knowing this secret path. “Come on.”

We have to go sideways to fit in between the buildings, and my back presses against the pink one. Suddenly, Carson stops.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The gate,” she says. I rise up on my tiptoes to see that there is a flash of iron in front of us—a locked sliver of a gate. And Carson has a key. It's an ancient-looking skeleton key that fits smoothly into the old rusted lock.

“What in the world . . . ?” I start, but she shushes me and waves at me to follow her as she opens the gate.

When she does, I breathe easier. The alleyway widens so that there are a few inches on either side of us, and as we get farther away from the street, I see a glowing light behind the houses. There's a small outbuilding here, with two windows and a door. It looks like a fairy-tale cottage that belongs to a fictional character, with flowers in the window boxes and a gingerbread lattice.

“Is this Dylan's
house
?” I ask her, and she puts her finger to her lips again, and then knocks four times in quick succession.

When the door opens, I see Dylan standing there in thick black-rimmed glasses and a black hoodie. He has a little bit of stubble on his chin, but I can tell that there's a baby face behind his specs. He ushers us in and closes the door softly behind us.

“Callie, meet Dylan,” says Carson.

“Hey,” I say to him.

He pushes his glasses up his nose and waves hello before shoving his hands into his pockets. He's about the same height as me, and wearing skinny jeans that show off his thin legs.

“Callie McPhee,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “A pleasure.” Then he smiles at Carson, and I swear that even in this dim light I can see his cheeks flush a little bit.

“So anyway, this is Dylan's grandfather's bookstore, and it's kind of become my, um,
haunt
for all things supernatural,” says Carson.

Dylan chuckles at her joke, and I notice again that he's really staring hard at my best friend.

“Well, nice to meet you, I guess,” I say to Dylan. “Where's the ring?” Not exactly my most gracious moment, but this is a strange situation.

“Callie!” Carson bristles at my forwardness.

“What? He texted about the ring!” I look to Dylan. “Do you have it?”

“No,” he says. “But I know who does. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Can we talk first?” he asks.

I cross my arms, feeling impatient.

“Listen, I'm not saying we should chat about the weather. Don't worry about niceties, even if we are in historic Charleston.” Dylan grins in the face of my frown. He's more talky than Carson, if that's possible. “Besides, there's no need to play a game like those inane
icebreakers they do at summer camp. Carson has already told me all about you—the coma, the Prism, your Guide, the possession you're dealing with involving a poltergeist named Leo. I can help, and I'm ready to get to work.”

My mouth drops open as he gestures to a table in the center of the room, piled high with thick volumes of dusty old books, some splayed open.

I look at Carson, feeling betrayed.

“I know,” she says. “I promised I wouldn't tell anyone. But Dylan isn't anyone—he's been studying the other side for, like, his whole life and he knows everything there is to know, and he already has some ideas for how to help us, and oh, please don't be mad at me, Cal.”

“This isn't a game, Carson,” I say to her, my anxiety rising.

“‘Secrets are things we give to others to keep for us,'” says Dylan.

“Excuse me?” I ask, annoyed.

“Elbert Hubbard,” he says. “Late-nineteenth-century author, philosopher—”

“Are we in English class?” I look at Carson.

“Callie, he's just trying to say that he can be trusted . . . that
we
can be trusted.” My best friend moves to stand next to Dylan.

I look at him now and he gives me a what-are-you-gonna-do shrug.

“You really trust him?” I ask Carson.

She nods her head vigorously. “I do.”

And what choice do I have? I've got to know where that ring is, and this guy already seems as stubborn as Carson. “Okay,” I say. “Tell me what you know, Dylan Dixon.”

Immediately, he plows into the pile of books.

“This one talks about a realm between Earth and Heaven, a sort of waiting area where souls linger,” he says.

I give him a withering stare. “I don't need to rehash what I already know,” I say. “I need to know more.”

He smiles at me. “Carson said you were serious.”

“Dead serious.”

Carson laughs nervously then, and I can see how much she wants me and Dylan to get along, how much she hopes he's the answer to all the things that are we're dealing with. But he's just a kid in a bookstore. Still, he does know about the ring.

“Okay!” says Dylan, springing into action again and moving around the table like a jumping bean. “Possession, right? That's the immediate issue we're facing.”

“Right,” I tell him. It still feels strange to be talking about this stuff openly, but it's a relief, too. “Listen . . . there's something I'm worried about. If the poltergeists are using my energy for possession, they may be able to attempt it at any time. I may be putting both of you in danger by being near you right now. The ring is the only thing that can protect us.”

“How?” he asks.

I hesitate slightly. “Well . . . it's a way to call to someone who can help, if we need it.”

“A ghost?” Dylan's eyes light up.

“Yes. A ghost.” I shoot a glare at Carson and she gives me a nod of encouragement.

“The talisman,” Dylan whispers.

“What?” I turn my head sharply back to him. That's the word Thatcher used.

“‘Love is the talisman of human weal and woe,—the
open sesame
to every human soul.'” He pauses. “Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I've read about this.” He takes three strides across the room and reaches up to a high shelf for a slim black book. He flips through the pages quickly and finds what he wants—this kid who loves obscure quotes is faster than Google. He starts to read aloud: “Every soul that remains in limbo has a talisman, an object of some value to their living selves which binds them to Earth and the living world. With this talisman, the ghosts can be summoned by living beings.”

He pauses. “Unfortunately, most living beings aren't aware of this fact. They hardly ever recognize the talisman as something of value.”

It's just what Thatcher told me.
I sit down at the table next to where Carson is standing.

“Okay,” I say to Dylan. “I think I'm starting to trust you.”

He smiles, like he knew I'd come around.

“And by the way,” he says, a confident lilt in his voice. “You don't have to worry about poltergeists taking your energy right now. We're safe here. This store is a no-fly zone for ghosts.”

“A no-fly zone?”

Carson jumps in. “It was founded by an old-school believer
back in the seventeen hundreds.”

“A great-great-something-uncle of mine who worked on a spell to protect this space,” says Dylan, puffing out his chest proudly.

I look around the bookstore, dusty and dim with row upon row of well-worn volumes. It's much larger than it appeared from the outside. “I had no idea it existed,” I say. “How big is the store anyway?”

“Bigger than it looks,” he says. “It was built in a way that uses tricks of the light—and the darkness—to obscure its location and size.”