Fairytale Come Alive (Ghosts and Reincarnation #4)(74)

His eyes on the door, he tried to call up what troubled him.

When he failed, he strode back to his glass, grabbed it, went to the cupboard, tagged the bottle of whisky by the neck and took the whole f**king bottle up to his balcony.

* * * * *

Fiona

You should read her journals, Fiona told her husband as she floated with her arse close to the railing of the balcony where he was standing.

She was floating as if she was sitting there, her ghostly elbows to her ghostly knees, her ghostly eyes on his brooding face.

He didn’t respond because he didn’t hear her.

Nevertheless, she kept talking.

You’d understand if you read her journals.

Prentice kept his eyes to the sea as he took a sip from his glass (the third glass, Fiona was counting).

She sighed a ghostly sigh.

Then she said, I don’t know why the powers that be did this to me and I hate it. But I love you enough to want you to have the world and she’s been your world for twenty years. If I wasn’t already dead, that would kill me. But even I can see that you two were meant to be. Why can’t YOU see? Why don’t you FIGHT for her?

Prentice continued to stare at the sea.

You don’t want her to leave, Fiona told him.

He didn’t respond.

Quietly, with all the feeling a dead woman could feel for the live woman who made the words true, Fiona stated, She’d lay down her life for our children.

“Aye,” Prentice said softly to the sea.

Fiona melted through the railing.

Swiftly, she bolted back.

Did you hear me?

No response.

Prentice! Fiona shouted, Did you hear me?

He threw back the remainder of his whisky but didn’t give any indication he heard her.

Fiona didn’t give up.

Read her journals! Look at her palms! TRY to understand her, Prentice! She shouted. Don’t let her go again. She needs you to fight for her! Fight for your happiness, for her happiness, for our children’s happiness! Fight so Bella can be free. Fight for ME to be free!

Prentice set his glass next to the three that were sitting on the railing.

Naturally, he took the bottle inside and put it on the bureau before he changed and went to bed.

Fiona glared at her husband as he lay in bed for a long time, arms crossed behind his head, head on his hands, eyes to the ceiling, sleep eluding him.

You’re an idiot! she snapped.

“Aye,” he murmured, rolled to his side and fell asleep.

Fiona considered throwing something at him which she could do.

Instead she dematerialized and materialized in Bella’s room.

Bella was lying on her back, arms crossed on her belly, eyes to the ceiling, sleep eluding her (again!).

You two are doing my head in! I wish you’d found some other dead woman’s husband to fall in love with! Fiona shouted.

“I do too,” Bella whispered, rolled to her side and fell asleep.

Fiona glared at her.

Then she spent the rest of the night with Sally.

Chapter Twelve

You Can Call Her Elle

Isabella

It was the blood.

It was always the blood.

It wasn’t her nudity, her open, lifeless eyes, her blue, bloodless skin.

It was the glaring red against the clean, stark white of the tub.

All she saw was all that blood.

Isabella screamed.

“Elle!”

When she heard her name, she jolted awake.

Prentice was crouched before her beside the couch, his hand on her arm shaking her, his face a mask of alarm.

She jumped to her feet, nearly knocking Prentice off his.

She wasn’t thinking. Her mind was in turmoil as it always was after those dreams.

He surged up and caught her on the run. His arm curving around her waist, he pulled her in front of him, his arms locking tight around her.

She struggled violently. His arms grew tighter.

“Jesus, Elle, what the f**k?”

Suddenly, she felt his warmth, his strength, his arms holding her captive against his solid, strong body.

Feeling all that was Prentice, Isabella collapsed in his arms.

Grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, she buried her face in his chest and burst into body-wracking, silent sobs.

She felt one arm leave her waist then the ponytail holder was pulled gently from her hair; her hair tumbled into his hand and he ran his fingers through its length.

“Baby,” he said softly.

At his sweet endearment, she could take no more.

She’d been holding it in for years, the grief, holding it in so her father wouldn’t see. Keeping it secret. Keeping it silent. Keeping it inside so her father wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t get angry.

She had to get it out.

“I hate it! I hate it when I have those dreams! Hate it!” she cried into his chest through her sobs. She tilted her head back to look at him and continued, “Dad hated it too. Said I was weak. Said I should get over it. He didn’t find her! He didn’t find her dead in… that… f*cking… tub!”

Vaguely, she felt Prentice’s body go solid against hers but she was too far gone to process it.

She buried her face in his chest again and sobbed, “I’m so tired of those dreams, Pren. So tired. So damn tired.” She tipped her head back and cried fiercely, “Why can’t I stop having those dreams?”