Permanently.
Somehow.
But that’s a future me issue.
“Fix this.” I nod to the heavy book in my hand.
Her pulse is hammering in her throat. I can see it fluttering away; see her deep swallow. Why the fuck am I staring?
“How many more times do I need to tell you that I can’t?” she yells, waving her hands about like it’ll drive home her point. “I can’t, okay? I don’t know what the fuck I did or why the fuck you’re here.I.Don’t.Know. Throwing threats around is a waste of your breath and a waste of my time. So either get off my back with this shit or give me back my book so I can finish what I started.”
I straighten at her tone. No lesser being has spoken to me like that since I was human. They haven’t dared. She’s either bold orstupid. Probably both. Entertained is the last thing I should feel, yet here we are.
“No,” I reply simply.
Her brows jump, incredulous. “No?”
“Can you break this fucking link between us?” I snap, stepping forward.
Her shoulders rise in a shrug.
A shrug.
Fuck. This fucking girl. She doesn’t even grace me with a verbal response before trying to grab the book from my hand. I lift it above my head, so unless she wants to climb me like a tree, then she’s screwed.
“How do you expect me to break the link if you won’t give me the grimoire back?”
“How do I know you’re not going to open another portal and let them come for me?”
That gets her interest. “Who?”
“None of your goddamn business. I don’t trust you. I don’t like you. I don’t want to be fucking tethered to you and leashed like a bloody fucking dog, so unless you can guarantee you can break it, then you’re shit out of luck.”
Her shoulder hits into my side when she pushes past me, leaving me in the room with the book still raised above my head.
I stare at the space she occupied. I’m not sure which I prefer—a dead girl who’s scared of me or a ghost slowly realizing she can terrorize me back.
9
Sable
Apart from the obvious—that being dead sucks—I’ve learned several things about ghosts since I died five nights ago.
First, they can still sense temperature—namely, the perpetual cold that never leaves my bones.
Second, with practice and the progression of time, a ghost can develop physical strength. It’s an exhausting, conscious effort though—one that’s slowly getting easier to manage.
Third, the movies don’t know shit because apparently, I can conjure things out of my ghostly being. For example, yesterday, I was sitting in the attic, angry and freezing, glaring at my sweater wishing I’d had the foresight to wear the matching beanie, then the aforesaid sweatermorphedinto the beanie I pictured.
I worked up a goddamn sweat trying to turn it back into a thicker version of my knitted red-and-black striped sweater. Then almost passed out from sacrificing my bra, turning it into a puffer jacket.
But woe is me, it didn’t do jack. I’mjustas cold as I was without the coat.
Fourth, and most inconveniently, ghosts require sleep—which feels like the biggest scam.I’ll sleep when I’m dead—yeah. I’ve been doing a fucking lot of that. On the first night, I slept for at least fourteen hours, and I was literally and figuratively dead to the world that entire time. Not even the sunlight shining in my eyes woke me.
At least it’s dreamless.
This time, when I’m pulled from the sweet lull of sleep, there’s an ominous presence pushing at the back of my mind, quickly confirmed by an odd, focused breeze and the clatter of a pebble. Still, it feels distant. That in-between that’s cold and dull, and there’s that sound.
