Spirits Rising (11 page)

I looked up from my novel, over at the happy couple. Jeremy’s limbs were wrapped possessively around Donna’s tall, thin frame. At that moment, I realized two very important things. First, no tab would be inserting into my slot anytime soon and, even more depressing, I’d just compared my sex life to constructing Ikea furniture.

Wow. Was I always this pathetic?

I sighed and turned back to my paranormal romance novel. Amongst those pages, I would pretend to be Misty Monroe, demon hunter. Through her, I could be wafer thin and wear a leather bodysuit, able to wield a silver rapier without hurting myself, and in charge of cleaning up Toronto’s gutters of demons, vampires, and dirtbags.

“Who is Paolo Bonacelli!” Donna exclaimed, pointing at the television set. Apparently, she’d answered the four hundred dollar question for Italian actors.

God in heaven and spirits in their graves, I wanted to hate that woman so much. Yet, here she was, staying in my house, with the man of my dreams draped over her like a cozy blanket. At this junction, you might be asking why Super Legs and Super Hunk were staying at my house.

The answer is quite simple, actually.

I, Rachel Miles, am an idiot. That’s why they’re staying in my house.

Jeremy laughed, his voice rich and full of mirth. My heartbeat picked up speed, all the while my chest constricted. I needed to find a way to leave, even if this was my own house. A month in Mexico wasn’t enough to get me to forget this moron. In fact, I came back and it had made us even closer friends.

Oh, goody.

“How do you know this stuff?” Jeremy asked, loud enough that it was also meant to bring me into the conversation. “Rachel and I can never answer any of these questions when we watch.”

I glared at him. Completely untrue. Anytime there was a Jane Austen adaptations category, I was able to score the entire category’s points, thank you very much arsehole. “You might not be able to answer any.”

Jeremy made a face at me.

Donna ignored our banter and gave Jeremy a sweet smile. “I dated a film major during my masters.”

He snuggled in closer. My stomach heaved. “I’m happy that you’re on your final degree. If not, I’d be afraid there might be another man for the next one.”

Donna winked one of her bright eyes at me. “There’s always post-doctorate work.”

They laughed and laughed and fucking laughed. Jeremy gave her a wet smouch on the cheek, and she let out a squeal of delight before cudding in tighter. I wanted to hurl. On them. In chunky form. But, I was a grown up. So I kept my vomit to myself and went back to my Misty Monroe novel and her cadre of demon-hunters. At least I knew Misty always got her man and a bad-boy fling by the end of each book.

“British literature, bah!” Jeremy declared when a new category was unveiled. “Rachel will get the obvious Jane Austen questions, at least. Why couldn’t they do something I’d know, like Mountie history?”

I doubt you know the history of your own dick, let alone the history of the RCMP.

Startled silence filled the air. I looked up to see Donna and Jeremy both staring at me in surprise. Oops. I really needed to staple my mouth shut. However, I gave Jeremy what I hoped was a wicked smile and went back to Misty Monroe’s adventures.

The snarky comment settled the lovers down to whispers and giggles, giving me a few moments of precious peace. The weather had been rotten the last two days, so I’d been stuck in the house with Mr. and Mrs. Smoochyface. The weather had been why they were here to begin with. Jeremy’s basement apartment flooded – why he was still renting with his salary was beyond me – and Donna had just arrived in town for two weeks, so had no where to stay. So…yeah.

I know, I know. Moron over here.

The wind blowing off the Atlantic shook my century-old house, the walls creaking from the relentless gale. Rain hammered the windows, each drop smashing against the glass like small pebbles. Between the howling wind and the cold rain, the damp cold settled into my bones. Even with both the oil and wood furnaces going full blast, I couldn’t get warm. It was like nature herself hung a sign up:

Welcome to Newfoundland. Got what it takes?

I heard Jeremy’s low voice mutter something in Donna’s ear, something about warming her up. She shooshed him and swatted his hand, giving me an embarrassed look. Irrational, childish jealousy seized me. I knew it was irrational and childish. I knew it was selfish. And I didn’t care. I couldn’t spend not another second with Jeremy and Donna in my house. Since they couldn’t go back to Jeremy’s, I’d just have to leave.

Misty Monroe never had to put up with this shit.

“Well,” I said, closing my book a little harder than necessary. “I’m going to spend the night at Mrs. Saunders’s. I promised her that I would.” If I had to spend one more moment around the happy couple, I would go all Buffy on their asses and stake them to the sofa. I stood up and announced, “Help yourselves to whatever’s in the fridge.”

I heard their protests but pretended not to as I rushed upstairs two steps at a time. I pulled a reusable grocery bag from the upstairs closet and went into my bedroom to stuff clothes into it. Tears welled up in my eyes. I angrily swiped at my face. Why wouldn’t I just get over him? Why couldn’t I just start dating? Why couldn’t I stake him to the friggin’ sofa and be done with him?

The bag refused to yield anymore room and I looked down. I’d stuffed the entire contents of my underwear drawer into it. I sat on the edge of my bed, letting out a long breath. It didn’t calm me, so I tried again. My pounding heart slowed. What was wrong with me?

Beyond the Wonder Couple, things had been tense the last couple of weeks. Two teenage girls, both fourteen, both best friends, had killed themselves in some kind of bizarre suicide pact. They lied about staying at the other’s house, went out behind the school, and shared a bag of pretzels and a bottle of drano. One of the girls was lucky enough to have asphyxiated long before burning to death. The other was apparently still alive when some other kids found her.

To say it had been rough would have been an understatement. The school had called me in to work with the students. They had a guidance counsellor on staff already, but my background was grief counselling, so I was pulled in to help by the school board. Rough job.

I mean, I’m trained to help people deal with grief, but being trained to do something is easier than being able to handle it. It’s part of the reason I took part-time and contract jobs like this across the province; it was easier on my nerves.

Talking to those kids who’d found their friends, burned and dead. And those parents. Shit. I ran a shaky hand through my hair. I knew those girls. Sandra Simms and Vicki Goosney. They were amongst the people who stood beside me while I tried to banish a wild supernatural brawl between Viking ghosts and the ancient native spirits that haunted the region. They’d stood out there in the cold and held their ground against the supernatural.

And now they were dead.

“Rach, you all right?”

I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes at the sound of Jeremy’s voice. “Just needed a minute alone.”

The floorboards creaked and I looked over at him. He was leaning against my bedroom door frame, causal as you please, sporting faded jeans and a snug grey T-Shirt. “If we’re crowding you, I’ll get a hotel or go stay with someone from work.”

I waved him off. “No, it’s not that.” That wasn’t completely the truth, nor was it a lie. I had a lot going on.

“Those kids still bothering you?”

Jeremy had been on a call out of town when the girls were found. They’d called in the special unit from St. John’s, who’d taken over the scene. Beyond the photos, Jeremy had managed to avoid the situation. He’d said later how happy he was to not have those nightmares. I’d not seen any of it, except for the images my mind formed as I talked with the teens who had found the girls. Those were bad enough.

“That, and Mrs. Saunders. She’s not any better and the doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong with her.”

Jeremy hestitated for a moment before sitting next to me on the bed. A nervous flutter filled my guts and, yet, all I wanted was to curl into a ball and sob and have him hold me. I needed a friend. I needed a friend who wasn’t sick, who didn’t live in another province, and wasn’t someone I was in love with.

“Mrs. Saunders is ninety-three, Rachel. That is what’s wrong with her.”

“I know,” I said, looking away. “I just…” I gulped down the lump in my throat. “It’s just so much at once.”

He slipped his hand over mine and squeezed awkwardly. Silence hung between us. He’d never been in my bedroom before, not actually inside it, and it felt very, very strange.

The wind whistled through the cracks in my bedroom window and I shivered. When the rain stopped sheeting down, I’d need to re-caulk all the cracks. If only they made a caulking for idiots like myself falling in love with taken men who didn’t notice you existed and wanting nothing more than –

“Rachel!” Donna called out from the bottom of the stairwell. Jeremy jerked away from me and stood up. I closed my eyes in frustration. “There’s a woman at the door for you.”

I frowned at that. Who would be here that Donna wouldn’t know? Wiseman’s Cove had a population of twenty-three; it wasn’t like it was a booming city. Wait, twenty-four. Wanita Butt just had a baby.

“Coming,” I shouted back and stepped past Jeremy, leaving him sitting on my bed, his hands gripping the edge. I wondered if I’d be smelling his cologne all night on the blankets.

I walked down the wooden stairs and stared at the stranger standing in my kitchen. Mid-forties, about my height. The woman’s wet, black hair sheened in the overhead lights and was plastered to her face. I guessed she was Inuit, her strong, dark features reminded me of photos of my great-grandmother. She was dressed in jeans and a worn leather jacket, completely inappropriate clothing for the weather outside.

The woman stared at me, her mouth open as if words failed her. I didn’t recognize her, but she sure seemed to know me. Her eyes went out of focus and she looked around the room, staring at nothing in particular.

“Hi,” I said,  “can I help you?”

She snapped her gaze back to mine and exclaimed, rather defensively, “I’m not lying.”

It took me a moment to realize that I had heard her right. Her eyes kept darting around the room. I let out a breath. She looked high, or perhaps coming down off something. Drawn features, bloodshot eyes, erratic conversation. At least I wasn’t home alone, so I was probably safe. Still, who was she?

“Are you sure you have the right house?” I asked, keeping my tone even. I had no idea what drugs she was on, so it was important to be as non-threatening and calm as possible. “Who is it you’re looking for?”

She snorted and went back to looking around the kitchen. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

I heard Jeremy and Donna step into the kitchen, the floor creeping from the shifting weight. Relief filled me, knowing I wasn’t alone. “Ma’am, I wouldn’t believe what?

She stared into my eyes, and a chill grabbed my spine. Her eyes did not dart around the way I’d expected. People on drugs had a hard time maintaining eye contact; she looked right into my eyes and held her gaze. No she wasn’t high. There was definitely something wrong with her, but it wasn’t drugs. At least, not at the moment.

“Rachel, believe me.”

I shivered at how she said my name. “Believe what? How do you know my name?”

“I’m your mother.”

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