Epilogue
It had taken Ram nearly a week to make his way back.
The likelihood the hag had done him permanent damage had always been slim—the dead were hard to kill—but hope sprang eternal. The ghost of Jonah’s brother had put his skin back on, but he still uncontrollably dripped stagnant water that puddled on the wooden floor of the church hall.
Or maybe he could control it and just didn’t bother. It was hard to tell with Ram.
“I think the roof has a leak,” an old man said as he balanced a donut on top of his coffee cup. He peered up into the rafters, as if he could eyeball the problem. “Need to get it fixed before it ruins the floor.”
Luke looked a bit gray around the mouth as he stared at the puddle. Then he shook the mood off and slapped the old guy on the shoulder. “Yeah, Ben, thanks for pointing it out. I’ll get on that.”
Satisfied his advice had been taken, the old man headed over to grab one of the folding metal chairs. Jonah took the cup of black coffee from Luke with a “thanks” and a bit of awkward silence.
“I haven’t forgotten what happened,” Luke said. “The ghosts. That woman on the farm. All of it. Guess I’m not one of the… lucky?… ones.”
Jonah smiled at him. “Guess not,” he said. Or he was, but he’d made a deal with a devil, and that meant he’d not get to leave the dead behind until he’d finished his last favor. They’d have to wait and see, but there was no reason Luke had to know that.
The fact he couldn’t see Ram suggested he might not be fully inoculated against forgetting. Not yet, at least.
“How was your apartment?” he asked.
Luke pulled a face. “Trashed,” he said. “Water damage, broken furniture, fried electrics. The landlord blamed it on a burst water pipe, so… could be worse. They didn’t find me dead in there, like that other man.”
David. That was the one Luke knew about. There’d been eight others before that. Until Deborah realized what was going on and clipped the news article to punch through the fog. She’d not remembered being brave, but she had been.
“No more hag,” Jonah said. “You don’t have to worry about that. Arlene never had anything personal against you, so I doubt she’ll hold a grudge.”
Not against Luke, anyhow. Jonah might not get so lucky, but he doubted she knew his fake name or where to find him. Not now he’d moved, at least.
“I never thanked you,” Luke said. “Not properly.”
“You don’t have to,” Jonah said without thinking. It was ingrained, the out that everyone in Babylon knew was a trap. They didn’thaveto pay the hex-doctor, but a happy life was one where they had. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
That was true.
Luke nodded and glanced at the group. The chairs were mostly occupied.
“Maybe, after the meeting, we could get a coffee?” Luke asked. His smile was slightly lopsided. “It’s not entirely proper, but this is a whole new haunted world, I guess.”
Jonah smiled back at him. It was easy. Luke would be too. He was handsome, into men, had a good job, and knew about hexes and curses, even if he wasn’t really a part of the world. Maybe that was all a normal guy with a shitty normal job wanted.
“Not tonight,” Jonah begged off. “Tomorrow?”
Luke grinned and reached out to give his hand a quick, warm squeeze.
“I can do that,” he said. Then he took a deep breath and smoothed his hair back from his face. “Wish me luck.”
Jonah nodded and headed for a seat between the mousy woman from Babylon and a man in worn jeans and frayed flip-flops. He drank his coffee, it hadn’t gotten any better, and sat through the meeting. It was Luke who got up first, his hands linked nervously together in front of him.
“My name’s Luke,” he said, “and I’m an alcoholic. It’s been a week since my last drink.”
A mutter of surprised sympathy moved through the crowd. A couple of people tutted, and Jonah had to resist the urge to grab their ears so he could clear up what happened. Maybe not the magic, but easy enough to blame roofies instead of the bottle.
There were two more after that. Jonah didn’t feel the need to make his own near-false statement, not this time. He waited until there was a break and then slipped out during the prayer, the door carefully closed behind him.
He had a new truck. It was more or less the same as the old one, a Frankenstein of spare parts, mismatched doors, and an engine no one wanted to take responsibility for.
The long, lean biker propped against the door was new, though.
