Rachel Caine & Kristin Cast & Claudia Gray & Nancy Holder & Tanith Lee & Richelle Mead & Cynthia Leitich Smith & P. C. Cast (3 page)

“Three minutes,” I announce, noticing that the line outside is longer now. Much of it is curiosity, I'm sure. But I can build on that.

“That long?” Ginny exclaims, propping up the sign. “The ice will melt.”

“The ice will be all right. You're . . . you're doing fine.”

I can stand the sunlight, though it seems to weaken me. Just like Ginny's bright smile. She half skips toward the ticket counter and then, with a “Whoa,” goes flailing. Without thinking, I pour on the supernatural speed in time to stop her fall.

Ginny steadies herself with a hand on my shoulder. “Where did
you
come from?”

During life, I didn't have friends my age, not in-person friends anyway, just some people I'd chat with on the Internet.
It never occurred to me that I'd feel pulled toward someone now. I know better than to care. I ask anyway. “Are you okay?”

“I guess.” She straightens. “I could've sworn I tripped over something.”

We both glance down at the smooth red carpet.

Ginny's doing a bang-up job at the register. She's all “yes'm” and “yes sir” with the grown-ups, amicable with the teens, and a charming reassurance that, despite the “haunted” theater and its murderous history, the ghost-movie theme is tongue-in-cheek. We're all just having fun here.

Meanwhile, I'm serving up another row of cokes. It's great. With the honor pay system, I don't really have to interact with the costumers.

At least not until the deputy shoves a couple of rolled-up dollars into the box and says, “Young Mr. Stryker, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir.” I keep my voice level. I've never been in trouble with the law. In fact, I'm known as decent enough—as someone who's had a hard life, but who's respectable, graduated with honors. “Welcome to the Old Love, deputy.”

“How's your uncle doin'?” he asks, grabbing a coke and a box of Milk Duds and a package of red licorice. “Some boys at Hank's Roadhouse were askin' about him.”

I knew that, sooner or later, the questions would come. It hurts to be reminded that Uncle Dean had buddies, that there was a better side to him, one I only glimpsed on the rare holiday or when he'd score a big buck.

I swallow the lump in my throat, make a show of glancing both ways, and meet the deputy's eyes dead on. Lowering my voice, I amp my drawl to match his. “Between you and me?”

The answering nod is sharp.

“I'm thinkin' he finally pissed off the wrong man. High-tailed it to Matamoros before the guy came after him. Didn't even say goodbye.”

The deputy takes that in. “Good riddance,” he mutters as he starts to walk off. Then after handing the coke to his wife, he turns back toward me, and adds, “I'm glad to see you makin' something out of yourself. Your mama was a fine woman.”

For a while, I pour more drinks and offer a “hey” or “howdy” now and then as customers make their selections and pay. But it's not long before I notice the ruckus at the ticket counter.

“Ben, please,” Ginny says, her voice rising, “I've got customers.”

Ben Mueller was a year behind me in high school. His older brother plays football for Baylor, his mom teaches at the elementary school, and his dad owns a used car dealership on the highway. His granddaddy, Derek Mueller, died two years ago of a heart attack after serving as sheriff for four decades. Ben himself is popular, a solid all-around athlete, and church-going. I only know him by reputation, but he smirks a lot and looks like one of those fungible blond guys on the CW.

“Problem, Ginny?” I ask, approaching.

Ben laughs, and the sound is angry, bitter. “Are you a freak too?”

Behind him, Tricia, the lady who owns the beauty shop, is whispering with her best friend, Martie. They're the unofficial news hotline. If the Old Love becomes known as a place for “wild young hooligans,” it's all over. I've got to deal with this fast and without making a bigger scene.

“Ben, please,” Ginny says again. “You have to pay or leave.”

“Fine,” Ben replies. “But just know that I'm—”

I grab his arm, and I can tell he's surprised by the strength of my grip. I stare him in the eye, realizing I'm a couple of inches taller. According to the FAQ on my blood dealer's site, some of us have the power to enthrall the traumatized or weak-willed. It's worth a try. Keeping my voice steady, I say, “You're going to take off now.”

“I'm going to take off now,” Ben repeats and pivots on his boot heel to stroll out the front door.

I'm surprised that it worked. Again, I don't know Ben well, but I'd never tag him as weak, and as for trauma, anyone could tell he's led a charmed life.

“My hero!” Ginny exclaims, and there's real appreciation in her voice. Then she beams at the two ladies next in line. “May I help y'all?”

After the last customer settles in, I get
Phantom of the Opera
running from up in the projector room. Then I hear Ginny call my name. She sounds shocked, terrified.

I half fly downstairs and burst through the swinging door into the ladies' room where she's pointing at
GET OUT
, written on the mirror in plum-colored lipstick.

It wasn't there before we opened. I didn't notice anyone walking into the room before the movie started. From the look on her face, I'm pretty sure Ginny didn't do it, but the color of the lettering matches her lips. She grabs the tube from the counter.

“It's mine,” she confirms. “It was in my purse.”

I'd stashed the purse in my office for her when Ginny returned this evening.

It must have been Sonia. I didn't know she could do that, move objects. In any case, it's starting to look like she wants to keep the place to herself. I don't understand. We're still getting to know each other, but it was going so well.

“A dumb joke,” I say to reassure Ginny. “Let's get it cleaned up.”

Ginny opens the small storage cabinet to grab a spray bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels. “What did you do to Ben?” she asks in a measured voice, and I realize how sloppy I've been.

If I want to stay above suspicion, I'm going to have to learn to deal with people—especially run-of-the-mill troublemakers—without using my powers. No more enthralling. For that matter, no more super speed.

I answer the question with a question. “What's going on between
you
and Ben?”

Ginny begins spraying the glass. “Can I trust you?”

It's a bigger question than she realizes. I'm not sure I know the answer. “You can talk to me,” I say. “Ask anyone. I'm no gossip.” That's true enough.

She goes to peek out the bathroom door to ensure no one is listening. “Well—”

“Wait. Let's go to my office. It has a lock on it. No one can just walk in.”

“But what about . . . ?” she gestures to the mirror.

I shrug. “We'll say it was the ghost.”

“Ghost?” Ginny asks.

On our way, I fill her in on the history, characterizing the haunting as local folklore. From Ginny's severe expression, I figure she either finds the idea of ghosts offensive or blasphemous or, at the moment, she's invested in a more corporeal issue.

I let us in, take the desk chair, and wait, trying not to let my impatience show. We can't stay in here long with the door closed. She's still a minor after all.

There's something about her, though, some strange connection between us. I've said more words to Ginny today than I probably have to anyone in the last year.

Ginny crosses her arms. “I don't know the people of Spirit that well yet, nowhere nearly as well as they know each other. I didn't know about Ben.”

I lean forward to clear newspapers off a crate for her to sit on. “What about him?”

She takes a seat. “I . . . We went to prom together. Ben got a motel room on the highway afterward. I thought it meant one thing. He thought it meant, um—”

“I understand,” I say. A lot of guys have expectations about prom. I can't help wondering how badly Ben took “no” for an answer. The fact that he was still hassling Ginny tonight suggests it was an ugly scene.

“I had to crawl out the bathroom window,” she adds.

It could've been worse. “You want me to walk you home tonight?”

“Yes,” Ginny pauses, standing again. “No. I'm fine. It's just . . . I never meant for things to turn out this way. I never thought going on one lousy date would—”

“Haunt you forever?” I ask.

She visibly shivers. “How did you know?”

My uncle's face flits across my memory. “Call it a hunch.”

Once the last happy customer leaves, Ginny skips across the lobby with a large black trash bag. “Let's get this over with and go celebrate!” With that, she flashes that sunshine grin and disappears into the screening room.

Celebrate
? I'm going to have to sit her down and explain that we're employee and employer, that we can't ever be anything more. Except . . . she could use a friend right now. “Hang on,” I say. “Let me help you.”

I grab a bag, and then it dawns on me that I should probably hit the restrooms first. So, I head down the hall, my steps
slowing when I hear the mysterious voice again. “Sonia?” Is that
her
singing? “Sonia!”

I let the plastic bag slip from my fingers onto the red carpet and begin walking faster in the direction of the sound. It's louder, clearer with each step I take.

I've heard the song before. Spirit only gets three radio stations—one in Spanish, one that plays country western, and one that plays golden oldies. It's a 1950s hit, “To Know Him Is to Love Him.” It's kind of sweet and kind of insipid and, once you've heard it, it's hard to get out of your head for the rest of the night.

The voice leads me to the door of a dingy break room that, in the push toward the grand re-opening, I decided to worry about later. I'm reaching for my keys when the supposedly locked door opens on its own.

Inside, the temperature is cooler, much cooler than it should be, especially with the vents shut. I'm greeted by the sight of a sink and cabinets, an empty space where a full-size refrigerator used to be, a beat-up table big enough for six, and five metal chairs.

The voice is coming from one of ten rusty half-lockers lined against a wall.

I'd hold my breath, but breathing is optional. “What are you trying to tell me?”

When I open the locker, it's empty. The voice grows louder, the room colder.

From behind, I hear something smack the table. Turning fast, I see the dust still flying up from where the little cloth-bound book landed. I walk over, and the song dissipates
with each step I take, ending altogether when I pick up the . . . it's a diary.