And then there are voices. So odd. So shockingly close I grip onto Finley’s hand a bit harder.
The voices aren’t very clear. Am I really hearing someone hold a conversation outside the library somehow? That would be possible in my apartment, where the walls aren’t very thick, but the library’s walls are made of thick stone from its earlier lives as the town hall and the courthouse. We shouldn’t be able to hear chatter from a floor up and outside.
Confusion slips in but only for a moment.
They’re too muffled, cutting in and out like bad cell service, and there’s something about them…
A light comes on.
It’s been so dark that I put my hand up to shield my eyes, but as I blink, letting them adjust, reality sinks in: it’s not the candles.
Finley hasn’t lit the candles, and the power hasn’t come back on. It’s the spell. Not mine. It’s Finley’s. Holy fuck. Shock freezes my entire body.
This is a glow like I’ve never seen before, and it’s coming from three ghostly spirits. Apparitions that form right before our eyes. “Finley,” I whisper to him as he pulls me in close.
“It’s alright, my little witch,” he whispers in such a way that it soothes any terror that joined the shock.
I did not think of ghosts like this. I thought of figures under sheets at Halloween or old people walking the same hall night after night.
I did not think of…hot men. Their abs etched. Their shoulders are broad and their eyes… beautiful. Their eyes are the most detailed and striking. Almost ethereal.
I swallow thickly, wondering if I’m having visions.
“You see them?” Finley asks.
“Yes,” I can only answer in a single word. My breath seems to fail me.
Their clothes don’t make sense. One minute, they look like they’re in uniform. The next, trousers and shirts. Either the ghosts can’t decide how they want to dress from moment to moment or that’s my own mind trying to make them into a form I can understand.
One of the ghosts has short, light hair. The middle ghost has longer dark hair pulled back from his face. The third has hair that might have been red falling into his eyes.
They’re all looking at me.
“Hello,” I say, because nobody’s said anything and it seems like the right thing to do. “Who are you?”
The sound of the voices comes back. But they aren’t clear enough.
“I’m sorry, I—I couldn’t hear.”
The middle one—with the longer dark hair—tips his head back and laughs. It’s a rich, deep sound and sexy. My God, his tone and the smirk he wears. I hold Finley closer, wondering what he makes of all this. Is this what he intended?
Then the ghost gestures at the other two on either side of him, and they come closer. Close enough that I press against Finley, unsure, and he soothes me. Petting my hair and telling me it’s alright before kissing my temple.
The oddest thing is that I believe him. Truly and deeply.
The redheaded ghost’s foot brushes against the container of chocolate, and it rocks on the mug warmer.
Finley leaves my side only to grab the stack of books in one arm and the candle, which has somehow lit once again, in his other hand, then reaches to put them out of the way and off the blanket. He leans back in for the mug warmer and the remains of the picnic. One of the ghosts glances down at him, then closes his eyes.
The tables and book stands slide back from the blanket, leaving enough room for all of us. There’s no noise as they move, apart from the creaking of the old desk. Chills flow down my spine and then lower. Somehow the fear of the ghost’s power is directly linked to my clit. Perhaps it’s the shock. Or the way Finley seems to greet the ghosts like old friends.
Finley gets to his feet at the same moment the dark-haired ghosts offers me his hand.
“You’re a ghost,” I tell him and feel foolish.
He simply smiles at me, leaning his head to the side as if to mock me. My stomach swoops. I believe in ghosts. I believe in energy and power and intention. If he wants to be able to help me up, he’ll be able to do it, right?
And if I want him to be able to help me up…
