Slate glanced at Dash, who still refused to meet his gaze. He wasn’t asking Slate to agree with him. He was waiting to hear what Slate chose.
Slate looked away.
“We should banish them.” The words felt like acid burning his mouth. “We can’t risk the portal. If we don’t act soon, those two will bring unwanted attention to Oriskany Falls. If we had the chance, I’d want to negotiate with them, but we can’t experiment. Getting this wrong will jeopardize Great-grandmother’s life’s work.”
Slate hadn’t thought Dash could get any stiller, but he had. When he moved, Dash stared at Slate. Hurt showed all over his face, he held Slate’s gaze for a few seconds. Then it was gone. Dash swallowed his disappointment like he had his whole life.
Something inside Slate broke. This was the man he loved, and he’d just betrayed him. It didn’t matter that Slate hadn’t meant to hurt Dash—it still stung the same no matter his intentions.
“Right.” Dash’s voice was barely a whisper. He stood without drama and avoided looking at anyone. “I need some air.”
With calm, purposeful steps, Dash walked to the door. Slate heard each creak of the old floorboards. The door opened and then closed, its soft click somehow louder than if Dash had slammed it.
Nobody spoke—they just stared at the closed door. Finally, Meredith slapped her hands on her thighs and stood. “That went well.”
As she moved to leave, Thomas and Oliver exchanged a look. They didn’t speak—at least not out loud—and then followed her out the door.
Cain shifted his attention to Slate. It didn’t feel like a judgment, but it wasn’t support either. He left by passing through a wall.
A few seconds later, Gary stirred and locked eyes with Slate. Gone was the carefree hippie they’d all known. There was a seriousness Slate had never seen. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t give anyone a chance to answer before he disappeared. The two words were a poignant summary of what just happened.
Slate’s mother cleared her throat. “You made the right choice, son.”
He didn’t answer because he didn’t feel right. Seeing how broken Dash looked before he walked out would haunt Slate for a long time. His expression was devoid of anger or resentment. Slate could’ve handled those emotions. The resignation born of repeated disappointments, however, was soul crushing.
“We should finalize the plan,” his father said, trying to move them past the moment. “We’ll need to set up in a place we can summon them safely.”
The conversation started again. Stiff. Mechanical. The noise numbing his ache. Slate heard all the plans, yet processed none of it. His mind stayed on Dash’s face, that quiet, “Right,” and the way the door closing sounded so final.
His mother and Millicent left after a few minutes of technical talk. They weren’t mediums and couldn’t help with the details. Millicent squeezed Slate’s shoulder when she passed but said nothing. What could she say? He’d hurt her grandson, the boy she loved like a child, and she approved. It was fucked up.
When it was just the three mediums, his father put his hands on Slate’s shoulders. “I know it’s hard when friends don’t understand. But experience matters. We’re keeping people safe.”
Friend? Was that all they thought Dash was to him? “He’s more than my friend, Dad. We’re supposed to take care of each other. I took your side over his. How is that right?”
“I’m sorry, Slate. That was a very poor choice of words.” His father dropped his eyes. “I know what you mean to each other.”
“Dash will come around,” Morten said, breaking the awkward moment. “He’s a smart kid. He’ll understand there isn’t any other way.”
Slate nodded. Not because he agreed—he wasn’t sure Dash would—but because he didn’t trust his voice. Arguing felt impossible when they’d both been doing this longer than he’d been alive. But standing in the nearly empty sitting room, Slate knew with absolute certainty that being right didn’t matter.
Chapter Eleven
Creaking the door open, Slate entered the ballroom. The ghosts had finished their work and went wherever ghosts go when they’re not here. The spectral colors remained, creating an oddly soothing rainbow hue. It wasn’t what Slate expected, but the important part was Gary and his friends were happy.
Slate paced along the walls, checking out the different displays. Ghosts from a dozen decades decorated little sections of wall in their own style. The room had been full of laughter and excitement as the spirits worked. From the snippets of conversation he’d overheard, this was the first organized event for ghosts anyone could remember. He and Dash gave the dead something special they could call their own. Funny how that happened when all they wanted was to herd them out of town.
He stopped at Oliver’s space. The rustic decorations were muted compared to the vibrant colors the others used. Unsurprisingly, it had been Dash’s favorite section. Slate was the outlandish one. The one who wore period clothing for the effect. Sunk into his hoodies, Dash stayed out of the spotlight, blending into the background as much as possible.
That was the problem.
Dash didn’t do things for show, or to make a statement. When he took a stand, he was passionate about the issue. The image of Dash walking out of the parlor played on repeat in Slate’s mind. He’d left with no fanfare, no angry accusations. Just that quiet “Right” before he stood and left the others.
Slate protected his family’s legacy. No. It wasn’t just his family’s legacy he wanted to secure. Though the portal had come at a cost to his great-grandmother and his family, it meant so much more. Scores of souls had already used it to find peace. Thousands more would use it over time. Two malevolent spirits who cared nothing about anyone but themselves weren’t worth risking something so important.
Banishment was the right decision. Being right, however, didn’t make Dash’s reaction any easier to watch. It also didn’t mean Slate handled the situation correctly.
