The Last Kiss Goodbye (8 page)

“Did I hear that right? You putting that savior complex of yours to work on trying to save me now?” The slow, mocking smile he gave her as she stuck the phone in her pocket, turned, and marched toward him would have infuriated her had it not been accompanied by an almost tender glint in his eyes. Rattled, she scowled at him.

“Shut up and move,” she said, hating to find herself in the position of having to do something that she feared (a) was a terrible mistake and (b) revealed way too much about the muddled state of her heart where he was concerned. Unfortunately, the thought of the consequences should she fail to act was enough to keep her with the program. “So I made a call to a psychic friend and asked her how to keep you here. Don’t go reading into it.”

“I won’t,” he promised as he obligingly moved out of the bathroom doorway to let her pass, and she guessed that he wanted what he hoped she could do for him more than he wanted to tease her, at least for the moment. Still, that smart mouth of his was going to get him killed one day, she thought savagely before she remembered that, oops, that horse had already left the barn. “So does your friend
know
how to keep me here?”

“Her name’s Tamsyn Green. And
maybe
she knows how to keep you here.” Being careful to keep her voice low as muffled sounds from beyond the bedroom door reminded her of the activity in the hall, Charlie headed for her long, low mahogany dresser, where she kept a supply of jasmine candles in a drawer. The candles were a staple of her Miracle-Go kit, which was so named because the items in it were useful in dealing with the occasional ghost with evil intent that occasionally afflicted her. She’d already used a jasmine candle once in an attempt to banish Michael, with, as his continuing presence attested, less than stellar success. Now she would use one to do the exact opposite of what she had done to him the last time: instead of forcing him into the Hereafter, she would try to keep him in the Here on Earth.

“That word
maybe
? I’m not a fan.” He was frowning, she saw with a quick glance at him.

“Tough. Maybe’s the best I can do.”

A sharp knock on the bedroom door made Charlie jump.

“Dr. Stone?” It was a man’s voice, calling to her from the hall. She didn’t recognize it.

“Shit,” Michael said. “Take a number, buddy.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute.” Charlie raised her voice in answer.

Michael made an impatient sound. “Forget about Snow White and the seven dwarves out there. Let’s get this thing done.”

Charlie nodded: he had to be her first priority. Obviously tense now, Michael watched a little warily as she grabbed one of the smaller candles, fished out the cigarette lighter she kept on hand specifically to light them, should the need arise, from a delicate porcelain dish in the center of the dresser, and headed back toward the bathroom.

“So who’s this Tamsyn Green?” He was following her.

“Your best hope for staying here,” Charlie whispered sharply. Not that she thought anyone in the hall outside could actually hear her from the bathroom, which was where she was by then, but still. Her professional reputation wouldn’t survive too many rumors that ran along the lines of
she talks to somebody who isn’t there.
She could only hope that Jenna had sufficient traumatic memories to share with investigators to have forgotten about Charlie’s seemingly one-sided chats with thin air. “She’s from New Orleans. Her mother was some kind of voodoo priestess, apparently. I met her my freshman year of college, when I was still having trouble processing the whole I-see-dead-people thing. I went to this psychic fair, thinking maybe I’d find other people kind of going through the same thing, and she was one of the featured psychics. Since nobody was able to see the two or three spirits that I could see who were actually in the room, I had already more or less given up on getting any insight into what I was experiencing by the time I walked by Tam’s table and she asked me why I didn’t embrace what she called my gift and get over it. When she was able to describe the same spirits I could see, I knew she was legit. She’s more than legit, actually: she’s a full-spectrum psychic medium and clairvoyant who lives out in California now and makes her living giving readings for movie stars. She knows way more about this stuff than I ever want to or will.” Mindful of the instructions Tam had given her, Charlie had been setting things up as she spoke.

Then she hesitated, looking at Michael.

“What?” he said.

“If I do this, you have to promise to abide by any rules I come up with,” she said. “Chief of which is, do not be a pain in the ass.”

“I promise,” he said, way too promptly for her peace of mind.

She gave him a skeptical look.

The smile he gave her dazzled. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Said the spider to the fly.

But she knew herself: charismatic psychopath or not, there was nothing else she could do.

“I mean it,” she warned, and he laid his hand piously over his heart.

Fine
.
Get on with it.

Positioning the short, fat white candle on the edge of the sink, she dumped her toothbrush and toothpaste out in order to have use of the heavy clear drinking glass they were kept in. With a couple of flicks of her thumb she got the lighter burning and, taking a deep breath, held the flame to the candle.

And tried to will away the nervous flutter in her stomach.

Please let this work.

“Whoa. Hold on a minute.” Michael’s expression was a study in alarm as the wick caught. Straightening to his full height, he shook his head at her. “We’ve been down this road before. You light that candle and I get vacuumed up by this big ole wind that spits me out right in the middle of Spookville. I don’t think so. That hurt and—”

“Just trust me, will you please?” Charlie interrupted. The candle was burning strongly now, and the scent of jasmine was building. Although she couldn’t feel it, she could see the effect of the passage that was opening on Michael: his hair was beginning to ruffle, as if a breeze were blowing past him. Conscious of her quickening heartbeat, Charlie wet suddenly dry lips. Then she picked up the glass and waited.

Tam had warned her that timing was all.

If this doesn’t work
… She wasn’t even going to let herself go there.

Michael was eyeing the candle uneasily. “Believe it or not, you I trust. This whole voodoo thing you’re doing here? Not so much. Charlie—”

“You have any better ideas?”

“Goddamn it.”

She took that as a
no.
His hair was really blowing now, and he seemed to be bracing himself against a force that she knew had to be substantial if he had to exert that much effort to resist it. The breeze had apparently turned into a strong wind, while on the other end she knew a steady suction was being created, although she couldn’t feel a thing. Not that she was supposed to: only spirits were susceptible. The purpose of the burning candle was to open a portal to the Other Side while at the same time drawing the Light, that legendary white light that she thought of as the pathway to heaven, nearer, and from all indications at least the first part of it was happening. A vortex was being formed and it was growing stronger until, soon now, it would be strong enough to suck him up and whirl him away to where he was supposed to be. Even as she watched, the suction apparently increased. Michael instinctively tried to grab on to the door frame to resist its force, but of course that was useless: his hands went right through the wood. His widening eyes locked on hers as he was pulled, slowly and with a great deal of resistance, toward the candle.

“Charlie—” His voice was hoarse, with an unmistakable undernote of fear. To hear Michael sounding afraid—well, she didn’t like it. “Can you hear it? The screaming?”

Oh, God.
No, she couldn’t hear a thing. But what he was hearing—in the purple twilight-y part of the Afterlife that he called Spookville there were, according to him, things called Hunters. They were called that because they hunted the screaming, terrified souls of recently deceased human beings who wound up there. Of which, if this didn’t work, he would be one.

“It’s okay. That just means it’s working
.” I think.
She didn’t add that last out loud. Her throat had gone tight. Her heart knocked in her chest. If she didn’t time this exactly right …

“Ahh!” His face contorted with pain as he was lifted off his feet and jerked toward her.

“Michael!” Heart in throat, Charlie snapped the glass down over the candle. As quick as that, the vortex dropped him like he was hot, as the suction pulling him in instantly ceased. Landing on his feet, he staggered, then dropped into a crouch inches away from her.

“Oh, my God,” Charlie said, as, inside the glass, the flame flickered and went out.

“Jesus Christ.” Michael flexed his shoulders as he looked at the still-smoking candle. “For the record, that hurt like a mother.”

He had already solidified. Just like that: no more cellophane man. Did that mean it had worked? She thought it did.
Thank God.
Her racing heart started to slow. The tide of dread that had been building inside her began to ebb. Crouched at her feet, he now looked as vividly alive as she did. Probably more so, Charlie reflected with a touch of wryness, because she had never possessed his degree of magnetism—or good looks.

Okay. Deep breath.

“Don’t be such a baby.” Her tone was brisk because realizing how much the idea of him being in pain bothered her bothered her. Current crisis apparently averted, she had no intention of allowing herself to dwell on how frightened for him she had been—or to clue him in to it.

Bottom line remained: he might be here for the time being, but he was still dead—and still subject to the laws of the universe, which might decide to take him at any time. Whatever the (twisted?) relationship between them was, there was still absolutely no future in it. Not that she wanted a future that included him anyway.

But still—here they were.

What have I done?
was the harrowing thought that occurred to her. It was almost immediately followed by its corollary:
Too late now.

“Baby? Me?” Sounding mildly affronted, he looked up at her then. The shadow of pain still etched his eyes, and Charlie found the tightening of her stomach in response more than a little alarming.

Again she took refuge in flippancy. “No pain, no gain. The good news is, I think it worked.”

“I sure hope so, ’cause I ain’t doing that again. Next time you start ju-juing me, think you could go with something that doesn’t feel like it’s tearing me limb from limb?”

She smiled.

“Dr. Stone?” A brisk rapping on the bedroom door caused her to shift focus in a hurry. It sounded like the same male voice as before. “Could I please speak to you a minute? It’s important.”

She raised her voice. “I’ll be right there.”

Her eyes were already back on Michael before she had even finished speaking. She hated to so much as consider the possibility, but she discovered that she was terrified he was going to start fading out, or flickering, or something similar, again. If he did, she had no idea what she would do. That call to Tam had been the last card she had to play.

“Fuck.” Michael slowly stood up, straightening to his full height, stretching and flexing and grimacing as if he actually had muscles and sinews and tendons that could actually hurt. “I feel like I got hit by a semi.”

“You’re dead,” she reminded him in an astringent whisper. “You shouldn’t be able to feel a thing.”

“Like I think I may have told you before: you don’t know shit about it.”

For a moment they looked measuringly at each other. He was so close that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. She could see the darkness in the sky blue depths, the tightness at the corners of his beautifully cut mouth, the tension in his square jaw. His hair, a sun-kissed dark blond that made her think of beaches and waves and sunny summer days, was tousled in the aftermath of the vortex. The fine texture of his skin, the slight stubble on his chin and jaw, the golden tan, all looked as real as her own slightly freckled, baby-smooth flesh. His broad shoulders and wide chest filled out the simple white cotton tee in a way that made her eyes want to linger. The brawny muscles of his arms, his flat abdomen and narrow hips and long, powerful legs, all proclaimed youth and strength and a healthy virility. Her breasts were millimeters from the muscled wall of his chest. If he had been alive, she would have been able to feel his body heat, feel the warmth of his breath on her face.

She would have been able to go up on tiptoe and kiss him.

For a second there, looking at the hard curve of his mouth, she wanted to so much that it made her dizzy.

But,
she reminded herself savagely
, he is
not
alive. And if he were, he would still be locked up in that sad little six by eight cell in Wallens Ridge
.