The Medium's Possession Read online

  Except he just had. They both had.

  “I’m fine,” Zander said, to Callum and their friends alike. “I thought—” her eyes got lost in Callum’s for a moment so she had to start again, prying her gaze from his and turning to the others at the table. “I thought I saw someone. But it wasn’t who I thought it was.”

  She hadn’t drunk-hallucinated since... since she and Wren had gone drinking that night right after she’d moved to New Orleans. When she had screwed things up with Callum before they were even a thing.

  A striking clarity hit her. They weren’t hallucinations—they never had been. Every time she’d seen the flash of a person who wasn’t there, the cloak had been slipping open.

  She had been seeing the other side all along.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wren cradled her steaming mug of tea between her hands and settled back into the bench at her dining table—the one that would become her bed in a matter of hours.

  She looked at her phone to see the time.

  Make that minutes...

  Lifting the shade, she looked out the window beside her. How was it already so late? She’d been staring at her computer a hell of a lot longer than she’d realized, apparently. She was trying to plan the route and itinerary for the next leg of the nomad-style life she’d been living for the last year. Usually she didn’t have any trouble deciding where to go next. She’d been to both coasts and seen nearly every state in between them at this point. The only states she hadn’t seen were Alaska, which was definitely on her bucket list; Hawaii, for obvious reasons, given she drove an RV to travel; and North Dakota.

  So she should want to at least pass through North Dakota, right? Normally, that would have helped her build her itinerary—but not this time. Every route she chose held no interest. None of them felt right. But she needed to travel. She’d been in New England for a couple of weeks and she’d met with all the clients she had in the area—even managed to meet and help some new people along the way. She’d be back, but for now it was time to move on. And to do that, she had to decide on a route so she could lay down the groundwork for her next set of witchy gigs—and her next set of paychecks—by reaching out to all the contacts she’d made in each city she’d pass through.

  It was cold in her RV but if she turned the heat on she’d be baking in no time, so instead she pulled the blanket off the ledge behind her and draped it over her shoulders with a shiver. But as soon as she tried to dive back into planning, her lids got heavy and her eyes started to blur. She sighed.

  Clearly this isn’t happening tonight.

  She’d felt...off all day. Nothing major, just not-quite-right. At first she thought maybe she was coming down with something, but as the day wore on she could feel that wasn’t it. She wasn’t any more tired than usual. In fact, she was sort of antsy.

  She’d met with a client in the afternoon, and while she was walking through the woman’s home, pushing smoke toward the corners with her white feather, she’d had to remind herself more than once not to rush. She’d cleansed herself with sage when she got home, in case whatever had her feeling odd could be alleviated by sage smoke, but that hadn’t made a difference. Was it a bad omen? Something negative that sage couldn’t help?

  Or was it just good old-fashioned dehydration?

  No, she drank enough herbal tea to keep an entire coven hydrated—it wasn’t that.

  She hadn’t been eating great, but that didn’t really explain feeling like this. Still, maybe she’d splurge on some fresh fruits and vegies next time she hit a grocery store.

  Could it simply be run-of-the-mill anxiety?

  Who knew? And, at this point, she was tired of thinking about it. So she finished her tea in three long sips, then scooted out of her table with the blanket pulled snug over her shoulders. She rinsed her mug in the sink and sat it on the counter, then she padded the four steps to the bathroom to brush her teeth, wash her face and wrap her hair.

  Fifteen minutes later, Wren swung the blanket off her shoulders and let it land across the foam mattress of her bed. Then she climbed in and settled back against her pillows, plucking a framed picture she kept on the ledge above her head along the way.

  Bridgette smiled back at her from the picture, her blond hair shining like wheat fanned out across the pillow, her blue eyes and smile bright and happy. This picture was one of the few things Wren had saved from her apartment when she’d left New Orleans. It had taken months before she could bring herself to look at it. At first, she hadn’t been able to look at any picture of Bridgette without breaking down. Then the sorrow had turned to a desperate kind of wishing. Like maybe if she could just figure it out, she could make the whole thing not true. She’d figured that was the ‘bargaining’ phase of mourning.

  It had only been during the summer that she’d found herself wanting to look at pictures of Bridgette again. That seeing her face made Wren feel warm instead of frigid with sadness or anger. But even through all of that, through the months when she thought she might never be okay again, she’d spoken to Bridgette. She’d say things, ask her questions into the air, knowing she would hear them, even if Wren couldn’t hear her responses.

  Sometimes she’d receive her response through her tarot cards. Or sometimes through the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. Other times, she received no response at all except an odd breeze or the sudden appearance of a bird or moth. Those were the responses Wren had to believe her way through. They weren’t obvious, and Wren had to wonder if they weren’t responses at all but just a coincidence.

  Then she’d hear Bridgette in her memories, something she’d said during a conversation so long ago Wren couldn’t remember what it had been about. “If it feels like a sign,” Bridgette had said, “it probably is.”

  Wren felt herself smile. “Got any idea what’s going on with me today?” she asked Bridgette’s picture, mostly joking.

  Zander crossed her mind.

  They’d texted off and on over the months since Wren had left New Orleans. She knew Zander hated her job and had been looking for a new one. Something closer to home, she’d hoped. Texting didn’t really allow for deep discussion, but at least they’d kept in touch. This wasn’t the first time Zander had crossed Wren’s mind in the last few weeks. Wren knew she needed to reach out to her in some meaningful way, she just hadn’t figured out what that was supposed to look like quite yet. Should she call her out of the blue? Text her first to see if she wanted to talk? It was all so awkward because of the way Wren had left things, but Zander would understand that right? She had to. She was cool like that.

  So Wren put the photo back on the ledge and took her phone of the charger. Then she pulled up a text to Zander and brought her thumbs to the screen.

  Hey, you up?

  She’d go to sleep if Zander didn’t respond in a few minutes.

  But then a text came through: Yes, and drunk. Celebrating my last day at hell job. What’s up?

  Looked like Zander had managed to find that new job she’d been looking for. That, or she finally got so fed up she quit her old one without having something else lined up. But that didn’t seem like Zander’s brand of planning. In any case, this was not the night for deep conversation.

  Nothing important Wren typed. Just saying hi. Congrats on the last day. Then she hit send.

  A minute later, Zander sent a purple heart emoji, which Wren took to be a sign of caring. She’d hit her up again in a couple of days. There wasn’t any rush.

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  Cecily kept her eyes trained on the television, but her focus was on Scott in her peripheral vision. She could watch him watch the documentary. Watch the way his brows furrowed when the topics turned complex, sad, or troubling. She could admire the way the tattoos on his forearms, the ones that disappeared under the sleeves of his tee and reappeared on his neck, moved and flexed when he changed position.

  Speaking of changing position, Cecily thought as she adjusted the way she was sitting. Her side was stinging.
And she couldn’t touch it, because touching it would risk irritating the hours of Scott’s artwork on her skin. The tattoo ran from under her left arm, to her waist, the edges grazing the side of her breast, and making the turns to follow her ribs so it skated ever so slightly onto her front and her back. Whenever she went to the bathroom, she found herself lifting her shirt to admire it after she washed her hands. His work was amazing. They’d decided last year, when they’d worked together to design the thing, that it should be shades of grays and light blues, a little brighter than the painting Scott had given her for Christmas—the one she’d asked him to design the tattoo around. The shading and shadow ranged from subtle white highlights through a range of blues, and down to deep charcoal grays so her side now resembled a roiling sea of symbols. The runes and sigils that didn’t quite hide her from the other side, but kept her safe nonetheless, were so fluid it was hard to distinguish where one ended and another began. Only someone who knew what to look for would see the symbols at all.

  The throb intensified when she moved a second time, so she aborted that position and returned to the first.

  The stinging ache had been building since the afternoon. And, in fact, the pain was what had her looking at the tattoo on her last bathroom trip. It was a little red along the edges—but wasn’t that to be expected? She’d just had a needle drug across her skin for a couple of hours the night before. Maybe she should ask Scott about it when the movie was over, she thought. Just to make sure it was okay. In the meantime, she pulled her shirt away from her side so the fabric would stop irritating it.

  “That’s the third time you’ve done that,” Scott remarked. “What’s up?”

  When she looked up, he was eying her, one brow quirked over his horn-rimmed glasses.

  She laughed under her breath, more at his expression than what he’d said. And because his direct stare made her nervous in all kinds of ways she didn’t care to inspect. “My tattoo is kind of killing me,” she admitted. “But we did just work on it, so...”

  His brows furrowed. “It shouldn’t be hurting that bad.” He planted his feet and slid down the length of the sofa in one fluid movement.

  Must be nice to be so tall, Cecily thought sarcastically as she lifted the remote and paused what they’d been watching. He had at least six inches on her. She wondered what it would be like to be with someone so much taller... then quickly squashed the thought.

  “Lift your shirt.”

  Her blood flamed in her veins, but Scott had his tattoo artist face on, he was all business. She began to lift the hem of her loose, tunic length tank then he took the fabric in his hands and lifted it farther so he could see.

  He drew a breath through his teeth. “Did you use scented lotion?”

  “No. I haven’t even used lotion yet—just ointment, like you said. But I was wearing a different shirt earlier. It wasn’t tight, but I think it might have irritated it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it looks like,” he replied, voice low, head dipped, his eyes trained on her side.

  Cecily held her left arm up, but held her shirt to the side of her breast with her right, because of course she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she could have with the tattoo healing anyway...

  Scott sat up. “Don’t move.” Then he stood from the sofa and disappeared down the hall.

  A moment later, she heard him in the kitchen, opening the fridge and shutting it again. Then he reappeared, lowering himself to sit beside her.

  “Take these.” He offered her two translucent blue pills. “They’ll help with the pain and inflammation.”

  She held out her free hand and he dropped them into her palm. She popped them into her mouth, then held her hand out for the bottle of water he was holding.

  He cracked the lid off and handed it to her, then went to work on her side once again. “I’m going to put some antibacterial ointment on this,” he said. “When did you wash it last?”

  “This afternoon,” she replied after swallowing down the pills in a gulp of water.

  “Good job.” His voice was quiet, he was concentrating.

  She jumped a little when she felt his fingers on her skin. And again, her blood flamed. She hoped he couldn’t hear the way her heart was beating harder than before.

  Jesus, she really needed to get control of this...whatever it was she had for him. Was it a crush? Maybe. She didn’t remember crushes including a feeling of profound respect, but then it had been years since she’d crushed on anybody—what did she know? Her feelings for Trevor weren’t really a good example—she’d been a teenager when she’d met him! Who knew what it felt like to be attracted to somebody as an adult?

  The ache in her side cooled as he gently worked the ointment along her skin, his fingers gliding in short, light strokes, disappearing, then reappearing again, presumably with more ointment.

  She sighed. She hadn’t realized how uncomfortable it had gotten.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, lots.”

  “Good. This has a small amount of lidocaine in it, so it should ease the sting until that ibuprofen kicks in.”

  His fingers nudged hers once, and she realized she was covering the edge of the tattoo with the way she was holding her shirt to her breast. She inched her fingers away to give him access and her breath caught in her throat when his fingers slid along that soft, pliable tissue, the sensation so different from the harder edges of her ribs.

  “Okay, that should do it.” His voice was lower than usual, and he cleared his throat as he sat up. “It doesn’t look infected, so that’s good. I bet it will be better by morning.”

  “Thanks, Doctor Scott.” She snickered and let her shirt fall back into place.

  He laughed and turned, ready to take his place on the far end of the sofa once again, but stopped. His laugh this time was more robust.

  Cecily turned to find that Rhia had jumped up onto the sofa, her big body now taking up the entire far half of the thing.

  “Don’t tell Callum, but I let Rhia on the bed with me. She’s spoiled.”

  Scott gave one decisive nod. “Well, I guess I’m sitting here now.”

  Rhia lifted her head, turned her icy blue eyes to them once, as if to acknowledge she’d won, and then laid her head back down with a snuffle.

  “Yep, looks that way,” Cecily laughed. She pushed herself up. “Here, you take the corner. I’ll sit in the middle.”

  Scott gave her a look like “you sure?” but ultimately slid to the corner when she ticked her head that way. She took his seat and unpaused the documentary.

  Then she took a leap she really hoped she wouldn’t regret.

  “You mind if I lean against you?”

  Scott’s eyes met hers for a heartbeat. His lips parted. Then he lifted his arm. “Go for it.”

  She drew her feet up beside her and leaned comfortably against his side, tucked under the arm he stretched along the back of the sofa, her head resting against the side of his chest.

  Cecily made it only about ten more minutes into the documentary before the warmth of Scott’s body, the smell of his aftershave, and the sound of his heartbeat lulled her to sleep.

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  The dew was still clinging to the grass in droplets, dampening the tips of Cecily’s toes and the sides of her flip-flop clad feet as she plucked the ball from the lawn where Rhia had set it gently in front of her. Then she chucked it out into the yard again and watched Rhia go chasing after it. Cecily laughed as Rhia ran, leapt, and caught the ball in her teeth. She was always so gentle with the balls and toys she played with, like they were fragile glass instead of tough rubber. Then again, Rhia was bigger than most dogs, and incredibly strong—if she wanted to, she could destroy that ball as easily as if it really were made of crystal.

  “And she reappears!”

  Cecily smiled at the sound of Trevor’s voice. She turned to see him walking soundlessly toward her, the blades of grass beneath his translucent feet undisturbed for his pre
sence. “I know—the whole house is runed. And the tattoo shop. So even when Zander isn’t here, I’m still blocked. It’s like I’m in incognito mode or something.”

  Trey laughed. “It’s all good. Anything exciting happen during your incognito vacation from the spirit world?”

  Cecily smiled as she held her hand out and Rhia placed the only-slightly-slobbery ball into her palm. “Not really. Zander, Callum, and Scott don’t have nearly as much of the house packed up as I’d have expected. Oh, and Scott worked on my tattoo a couple of nights ago.”

  “Sweet. Let’s see it.”

  She glanced around like she thought someone might be looking at her in the backyard, which was ridiculous. Then she lifted the side of her shirt—not high enough to reveal the topmost sections, but far enough to get the idea.

  Trevor bent to see the detail and whistled a low note. “That’s sick. Scott did all this?”

  Cecily lowered her shirt. “Yep. He’s amazing—” she caught herself, “at tattooing, I mean.”

  “Looks that way.”

  His tone had some kind of mirth or sarcasm to it. She looked at him directly, and found him smiling like he knew something she didn’t.

  “What?” she pried.

  His smile grew. “Nothing. Scott has glasses, right?”

  Cecily felt her brows furrow. “Yeah. Why?”

  “I think I saw him—you and he were walking the other night. I could see him, almost as clearly as I could see you. He seems cool. Lots of tats.”

  Yes, he did have lots of tats, Cecily thought. Really well-done tattoos she’d never had the chance to ask him about. He’d told her the origin story of one or two of them when they pertained to another topic of conversation but most of them—the majority of them—were mysteries to her. Hell, there were a number of them she’d never even seen, hidden beneath his clothes as they were.

  Wait. “You were spying on me?” She wasn’t mad—just curious as to why he hadn’t shown himself to her. “And how did you see him?” she challenged. “You don’t know him.”