Ghost (The Halloween Boys #1) (47)
“I need to get back to Blythe before she snaps out of Onyx’s mood-touch.”
I’d shot a text checking in after the ghoul’s erratic threats. Dragon assured me nothing demonic was in their sphere. He didn’t seem worried. And now that my powers were in a more stable place, I could get home quicker. My abilities had come back, and they had reappeared stronger… for her.
I should have felt more peace. The ghoul was caught and currently experiencing a fate worse than death. I’d protected my little ghost, like I promised I would. My powers had returned, even if momentarily. They’d returned out of a need to protect her, which was . . . different. I should have been ready to celebrate and breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe my distrust of demons was getting to me, and the adrenaline of the fight and the poison my body was fighting was throwing me off. I shook off my hesitations. Wolf was right. We did it.
We could set Blythe free now.
It was what was best for her. What I’d been fighting for and working toward.
So why did something in me shatter at the fact it was now all over?
CHAPTER 17
Blythe
I WANT YOU
Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do?
American Psycho
After several beers and rounds of vintage Nintendo games, the low flicker of candlelight lured me into a nap on Ames’s worn sofa. I was still feeling the effects of our library trip. Wolf said I may have breathed in asbestos, a toxic chemical used in older buildings. I guessed that made some amount of sense, but something was still nagging at me. I couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was their conversation I overheard in the car, or maybe it was the number of times I’d blacked out while being around them. It didn’t seem plausible it was all an accident. Then again, I’d been on the run and skeptical of everyone from the truck next to me at a stoplight to the barista at the coffee shop. My trust instinct was broken and looking for any reason to not believe these guys were sincere. Was it so crazy to believe that I felt so safe around them that I got sleepy? I’d been alone and in fight-or-flight for so long that finally having human interaction in the form of beefy men put my mind at ease, at least for the time we were together. Their jeering lulled me into a fitful sleep.
His boots crunch through dried leaves as he kicks a jack-o'-lantern off a winding path into the dark forest. A path I recognize from the night prior. He’s whistling the same tune he did when I was a teenager. The sound of it is so real, I want to run. I want to hide. The crunching stops in the middle of the path and he looks up, his face more worn and grayer than when I saw him last. He still has huge swatch of dried blood on his ragged flannel shirt. It’s still soaked on the spot below his left shoulder, right where I left it. Wearing it reminds me of what I did. It reminds me of how I failed . . . somehow. Even though I was sure he went cold and stopped breathing . . . he survived, and he wouldn’t stop until he returned the favor. Fear gripped my throat and squeezed. No, it was him. It was his freezing cold hand. How could I feel it in a dream? “Caught you, just like I said I would,” he whispered.
Something grabbed my shoulder and I startled, opening my eyes. I expected to see the woods, the crushed pumpkin. I’d expected the smell of his rancid breath in my face. But instead, a crocheted blanket covered my legs and dripping taper candles illuminated the church attic. Next to the stained glass was a beautiful scene that looked like it belonged in a different time, like I had stepped into an era long past. It was oddly comforting feeling like I’d escaped my time period for the briefest moment. I wondered if Halloween here felt the same, with everyone dressing in eighteen-hundreds attire. I’d find out in a couple weeks. The sight slowed my breathing, and the man that was still touching my shoulder . . . only sped my pulse back up again. His jaw tensed and his blue eyes shone with concern beneath dark brows. “You were having a nightmare. You’ve been asleep a few hours.”
Sitting up, I weaved my fingers between the holes in the blanket. “I was talking in my sleep? I’m sorry I passed out. It seems to happen a lot around you guys.”
“Trauma can make a person weary. Please don’t apologize for that. I consider it an honor you feel secure enough to rest around me.” He slowly moved his touch down my arm to my hand. “You were so . . . frightened just now.”
I must have been thrashing or talking in my sleep. I’d never done that before. However, I hadn’t been asleep around anyone long enough for them to ever tell me. So, I guessed that was a new trauma development. “Sometimes the dreams are so real that I can’t breathe.”
“Flashbacks can be difficult for any survivor—”
I stopped his therapist speak. “They aren’t flashbacks. I know you’re going to think I’m crazy. I’m sure Dr. Omar does when I tell her during my sessions, but the dreams, they’re . . . happening now. In real time, it seems. Sometimes in places I recognize, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes he sees me and interacts briefly. But he’s different than he used to be. It’s hard to explain.” I searched his eyes for judgment and found nothing but attention and sincerity. My chest warmed and I continued. “He’s freezing cold, and wearing the same clothes, and . . . ”
“And?” Ames's jaw ticked and I wished I could look into his mind and know what he was thinking. Probably poor pitiful girl with her self-inflicted drama . . . I took a deep breath. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”