“You think everything is so simple.”
I pulled away from him. He would not manipulate my feelings in this conversation. “That’s because most things are simple—you live, you breathe, you die. It’s just that easy. You did all of those, and now it’s your turn to be on the other side, to enjoy the spirit world. It’s not for you to gamble against Lucky Strike and take his soul.”
“He lost it fair and square,” Dad growled.
“But you weren’t supposed to keep it as long as you have.”
He punched his hands into the pockets of his dress pants and moved to the drink table. His leather shoes were so vibrant that they reflected the ambient light in the room. The heels even clicked as he stepped onto the wooden floor before touching the rug again.
Wow. Having two souls was powerful. What would happen if he wound up with three? I think I already knew the answer to that question.
He stared at the glass carafe of bourbon. “Would you pour one for me?”
All the time I just kept thinking that I needed to call Lucky. I needed to hold my dad. I needed to…I needed to…But I sure as heck didn’t want to. For just a few minutes it was nice to be with him again, to look at him and watch his mannerisms. Things that I had forgotten he did, like jingle the loose change in his pockets while he waited for me to pour his drink, were warm and fuzzy memories. Seeing my dad was like wrapping a comforting blanket around my shoulders and curling up in front of a crackling fire.
The scent of my father filled the room. He smelled of apple tobacco and cloves. Don’t ask me why, but that was how my father had smelled. Roan often smelled of baking, food scents. Maybe that was partly why I loved him—because he reminded me of my dad.
Which was gross, sort of, but human as well.
I settled the drink in front of him and stepped back.
“I can’t lift heavy things yet,” he explained, staring at the carafe. “I’m still fairly limited on what I can and cannot do. You see,” he said, turning to watch me, “when Lucky first offered me his soul, I didn’t think much of it. I thought, well that’s a stupid thing to wager on. It’s what makes you, you, isn’t it? Isn’t your soul what makes you the person you are? That’s what we’re taught to believe. So I rejected his offer.”
“He told me that.”
Dad smirked. “Oh, so Lucky elected to tell you that part, did he? In case you haven’t guessed, Lucky Strike has a gambling problem.”
“No surprise there,” I murmured.
“So we set the bet and he lost.” Dad’s eyes took on a faraway look. “The next thing I knew, Lucky was yanking his soul from himself, screaming the whole time. I didn’t know what would happen. I thought he’d die, that his spirit would cease to exist.” He wagged a finger. “That was why I didn’t want any part of the bet to begin with.”
“But you still went on with it,” I pointed out.
He cocked his head to one side as if listening to some sound that I couldn’t hear. “Yes, I did take his wager, and I took his soul, fully expecting for Lucky to cease to exist.”
“But that isn’t what happened.”
He shook his head and stared at the tumbler with a finger marker of brown liquid. “No, Lucky survived and I…I thrived.”
That was when my father picked up the glass and stared at it. My stomach dropped to the other side of the planet. I’d seen spirits pick things up with their gifts. I’d seen them float objects to me but never, not once, had I witnessed a spirit lift an object like they were a living, breathing person.
My father tipped back his head and tossed the liquid into his mouth, where it entered and then splattered to the floor, creating a Rorschach-like puddle.
“Ew. I’m not cleaning that up,” I said.
He sighed and faced me. “There are limits to what I can do. Alas, where two souls are good, there are still lines that can’t be crossed.”
Roan was right. My father wanted more souls so that he could become more powerful, so that he could become solid.
“It’s true, you want to regain your life back,” I whispered.
“You’re looking at this the wrong way,” he said. “You look at me, Blissful, and you see that I’m half of what I was—a dead thing that has better, more cemented lines than most spirits. You know, I almost tasted that bourbon.”
“Was that before or after it splashed onto the floor?”
His smile sat squarely between being warm and cold. It was tepid, I suppose, the sort of smile that suggested my father was suffering me.
He flexed his fingers, and that was when he reminded me of a villain in a superhero movie. We were having the discussion of why he was entitled to Lucky’s soul. All I was waiting for now was the conversation about how my father and I were alike, and how, if I was given the same chance, I would have done exactly as he had.
