The Medium's Possession Page 7

  A fat raindrop hit her nose. Another hit the top of her head.

  When she looked up, Callum was already halfway to the door.

  A crack of thunder made her jump and a lightning fast thought bolted through her mind. Maybe she should just stand out in the storm—and hope for a lightning strike.

  If there was no shadow in the veil with her that meant all of this—this ire, this desperate anger, the voice—was her. It was all her.

  Just you, my peach.

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  Wren tilted her head to one side, then the other, stretching the kink in her neck that reviewing her bank account and budget had created.

  God, she hated money.

  It had been so much easier to come by when she’d been a nurse. That should have been enough to make her want to go back to working at a hospital again. Or maybe in a clinic, like when she’d worked in ortho. She’d entertained the idea before, but then she’d look at her RV and the thought of being stuck in one place, grinding through twelve-hour shifts just wasn’t worth the extra income. She made enough to get by now. Enough to eat, and pay for gas without dipping into her savings. She didn’t need much else. It was really freeing, actually.

  A tingle at the base of Wren’s spine had her reaching back to scratch the itch, but before she could make contact, the tingle turned into a crawling kind of cold. It slid up her back, leaving goosebumps as it went, until it spilled over her shoulders and slithered onto her scalp.

  It wasn’t cold, like she needed to turn on the heater. On the contrary, the muggy Boston autumn had infiltrated her RV, making the tank she was wearing a necessity more than a fashion choice. No, this was something else.

  She looked to Bridgette, her still smile bright in the picture frame.

  “What’s up?”

  She didn’t answer, of course—not that Wren had expected the picture of her dead girlfriend to speak—but the slithering cold did dissipate by a fraction.

  Her phone buzzed, startling her.

  Picking it up, Wren was surprised to find a text from Zander.

  You ever think maybe nothing will ever be normal again?

  Wren had to chuckle low. She could remember a time when she’d had thoughts like that. Sure. Mostly when the whole witch thing was new. But it got better. Everything okay?

  ...

  ...

  I think I fucked things up with Callum.

  That’s not what she’d expected. Wren had figured she was being funny-dramatic about how awful moving was, or something about ghosts being real—not real-life stuff.

  That sucks, Wren typed. What happened?

  ...

  ...

  ...

  I said some shit I shouldn’t have. I want to fix it, but I don’t think I can.

  Wren sat for a second. Was she reading this wrong? Inferring a darker intonation to Zander’s messages than were intended?

  Let’s talk for real, Wren typed. Can I call?

  ...

  I can’t. No privacy, and if I leave I’ll look like a grade A bitch.

  She sent another message while Wren was still figuring out how to respond.

  I’m fine. I’ve got it handled. Thanks for listening.

  Wren brought her thumbs back to the screen. You know you can call me any time. I don’t care what time it is.

  The message delivered, but five minutes later, Zander hadn’t sent a response.

  Wren looked to the picture of Bridgette again. “We heading back to New Orleans?” she asked her, knowing the answer without any need for confirmation.

  Wren wasn’t about to clock out again when her friend needed her. Which meant if New Orleans was where Zander was, then that’s where Wren was heading.

  No matter how much it scared her to go back.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rain pelted the building, the sound loud enough to be heard over the buzzing of the tattoo needles as Scott held the vibrating machine in his hand.

  It was almost like déjà vu, except the rain was louder this time—an actual storm.

  “It’s really coming down out there,” Cecily remarked from where she lay, face-down on the padded table in front of him with her head cradled in her arms.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” he replied. Then he sat back. “I need you to roll over so I can get to the edges on the front. Do you need help?”

  “Nah, I got it.”

  He stood from his chair and went to the credenza behind him, taking the opportunity to refill a couple of inks and alcohol his needles. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  The sound of movement continued, then stillness.

  “Ready.”

  A flash of teenage fantasy ran across his mind. What would he do if she was lying there, chest bare? He stuffed the thought away and was equal parts relieved and disappointed to find her breasts covered with a towel.

  She smiled when he took his seat. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Getting this tattoo finished,” he said quickly. “It’s gonna be awesome.” The beginning of the sentence might have been fabrication, but the second half had been pure truth. They made a rad tattoo-design duo.

  “Ah.” A breath of a pause. “Yeah, I mean, I loved it already. Can’t wait to see it done. You do kick ass work.”

  “Easy to do good work on a—”

  A rolling boom echoed through the walls.

  Cecily let out a startled squeak as the building rattled around them. Scott turned an ear toward the window at the front of the shop, listening to the thunder slowly fade to a growl.

  Damn, he loved that sound.

  But when he looked back to Cecily, his smile fell.

  Her face was turned away from him, the tendons in her neck pulled tight; her arm was over her eyes, her fingers balled into a fist.

  Scott snapped one of his gloves off as the long growl dissipated to a faint rumble; he placed his bare hand on her bare shoulder. “You okay? It was just some thunder.”

  He watched her ribs flex as she drew a breath. Then she laughed a breathy laugh and turned her face toward him, raising her arm so it was over her head like it had been before. “Yeah, I’m good. I just hate thunder. No big deal.”

  Something about her eyes made him pause, but it wasn’t his place to pry and he didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, so he dropped it.

  “Okay. You good to keep going?”

  “Yeah, totally.” She turned her face to the ceiling and settled in, repositioning her arm so it was tucked behind her head.

  Scott rounded the end of the table, pulling his stool and the sliding tray he kept beside him along for the ride. He took his seat again, but when he went to lift the edge of the towel with the plan of discretely folding it so only what he needed to see was exposed, he realized he was no longer wearing a glove on his right hand.

  A few seconds and a quick roll to the credenza and back later, he was on to take-two—with both gloves this time.

  Not that the gloves made it any easier not to drool as he tucked the edge of the towel out of his field of work.

  Damn Cecily’s skin was smooth.

  Why had he agreed when she had suggested letting the edge of this tattoo curl onto her hip bone? He cursed himself while other parts of him rejoiced.

  This was impossible.

  No, he reminded himself. Not impossible. He was a professional.

  Yeah, a professional with a hard-on.

  Cecily was his client.

  A client you aren’t charging for your work, and who you’d mount right here, right now if she gave you the green light.

  He could do this.

  He took the tattoo gun in his hand, wound the cord around his wrist without thinking about it, and powered the thing up while he gazed at Cecily’s skin.

  At the artwork on her skin.

  Damn it.

  He found where he wanted to start, then dipped his needles and went to work.

  Once he was actually working, it was easier to t
hink more about the piece of art than the piece-of-art-canvas to which he was applying it. He could concentrate on the shading and colors, the fade and blending of hues, the transition from soft to crisp lines—and not concentrate on the way her skin looked in the light as she breathed, or the smell of her body wash.

  One of the things he loved about tattooing was the challenge of getting into the zone while staying cognizant and empathetic to his client’s comfort and needs. When he painted, he could go so far into himself that hours would pass before he realized it. He’d skip meals without knowing it. But when he tattooed, that wasn’t possible; there was a real person lying there. And every stroke of his brush brought pain, even while it left beauty behind. That balancing act of zoning in on the work, while staying aware was like walking a knife’s edge. It came more easily now than it had when he’d first started tattooing however many years ago, but it was still a challenge, and he had a feeling it always would be in some way or another.

  Scott began blending a bend in the water-like form, coalescing a splash of blue with a froth of white so one began to reflect the other.

  He hoped Cecily would let him take pictures of this piece for his portfolio and website when it was finished.

  Still shading, he opened his mouth to ask her just that—but a new clap of thunder cut him off.

  Cecily jumped.

  Scott jerked the needles away from her skin just in time.

  A wash of adrenaline ran over him and a second roll of thunder rattled the building around them. Best case scenario, if he’d been mid-stroke when she jumped he might have messed up an edge, or made some other errant stroke. Worst case, he could have jabbed the shit out of her.

  He drew a slow breath as the thunder faded. Then he looked to Cecily.

  Her arm was over her eyes again, that hand of hers balled into a fist.

  He sighed. It was only then he realized his heart was pounding—and not from being turned on, for a change. He pulled off one of his gloves, then the other. “Let’s call it a night.”

  Cecily nodded and uncovered her face. “Yeah, that seems good. Can you hand me my shirt?”

  Her easy acquiescence was proof that he’d been right to end the session. She was normally all in to keep it up as long as he’d let her. The fact she’d agreed to stop without argument meant she was either more freaked by the thunder than he’d first thought—or, more likely, she wasn’t so keen on being impaled by tattooing needles.

  He turned and nabbed her shirt from the chair along the far wall. When he turned back, he caught the image of Cecily sitting up on the table, holding the towel to her breasts—right before they were plunged into darkness.

  Of course, he found himself thinking. Why wouldn’t the power go out?

  Aloud, he chuckled. “Looks like we chose the right time to be done.”

  “Apparently.” At least she sounded amused.

  They’d headed to the shop as soon as Callum got home from seeing Miriam, neither Scott nor Cecily wanting to stick around for the epic heart-to-heart that had certainly been about to ensue between Zander and Callum. So it wasn’t late—barely dinner time, in fact—but the screens he kept in front of the windows in his station blocked the majority of the late afternoon light, plus the storm meant there wasn’t much in the way of sunshine out there to begin with. End result, it was middle-of-the-night dark around them right now.

  “Don’t move,” he said. “There’s an emergency light in the back hall. I’ll move the extra screen—that should give us enough light to see by so we don’t kill ourselves getting out of here.”

  ‘Cause he sure as shit wasn’t moving one of the window-screens—Cecily was sitting there topless!

  He crossed his bay on memory and found the shoji screen exactly where he knew it would be. Sliding it aside, sure enough, the emergency light down the back hallway cast a dim, grey shine that was just enough to see by. Scott turned back in time to see Cecily pushing her arms into her t-shirt.

  “Hold up,” he said. “I still gotta wash, ointment and wrap you.”

  “Oh, right.” She stopped and sat, her legs hanging over the side of the table, the t-shirt doing the job the towel had been doing before.

  He rounded the end of the table, grabbed the necessary supplies, and came back around to her front, pulling his rolling stool along with him. He gave her a smile as he sat himself down and began pulling on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

  “Maybe we’ll get to the final sitting once we’re up in Seattle, huh?”

  He heard her give a quiet breath of a laugh as he positioned the towel to catch the liquid he was about to pour down her side to clean the areas he’d just worked on. He tried not to notice the way she stiffened when he patted the area dry—he tried to be gentle but there was no way to make rubbing terrycloth over raw skin painless. Then he squeezed ointment onto his gloved fingers and went to work applying the gel to her skin, just as he’d done after each session; just as he’d done last night on the sofa.

  Damn, the darkness made this even more difficult—and not because he could barely see what he was doing.

  He could suddenly feel his pulse in his veins, hear it in his ears. He drew a slow, deep, hopefully silent breath.

  “Scott?”

  That breath hung in his chest.

  He looked up to see Cecily peering down at him. Her lips parted, and he felt her ribs bend under his fingers, still held against her side. The barely-there light across her face, her neck—it was beautiful. A study of shadow and contour he wanted to touch.

  I should do it, he thought, the idea loud in his head. All he’d have to do was push himself up, mere inches would bring his mouth to hers.

  She shook her head and cast her eyes away with a soft, humorless laugh. “Never mind.”

  But what if he was reading her wrong? Doubt warred with his desire. What if he kissed her and that’s not what she wanted? Or worse, what if she felt obligated to kiss him back for all the time he’d spent on her tattoo? It could ruin everything.

  Time restarted when he realized his fingers had been sitting still against her skin for more seconds than was comfortable.

  He couldn’t kiss her now. He had been caught up in the romance of a thunderstorm and the feeling of her skin beneath his fingers when he needed to be thinking logically and considering the right way forward.

  Yeah. That sounded right.

  He finished the ointment, and had her wrapped and dressed in record time.

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  In the hours since Cecily and Scott had come home, the rain had slowed and the skies had lightened just in time for the sun to set. Cecily had been relieved to see that Callum and Zander seemed okay. They hadn’t talked much all evening, but they weren’t giving each other the silent treatment either. Zander had gone to bed early, saying something about wanting to get up with the sun. She seemed really exhausted, or maybe sad. But when people talked to her, she smiled. And when Cecily had quietly asked her if everything was okay, she’d laughed it off.

  There wasn’t much prying Cecily could do in close quarters with Callum and Scott, and in the face of Zander’s thickly applied, outward assurances that everything was fine.

  Callum had watched TV with her and Scott for a time after Zander had gone to bed, and Cecily had thought about nudging him for details and his own take on everything’s-okay, but when she’d gone to do it, Scott’s expression caught her eye. She’d looked to him and, like he’d known exactly what she was about to do, he shook his head subtly, as if to say leave-it-alone. So she’d dropped it. Scott knew Callum better than anyone, after all—if he recommended not going there, who was she to challenge that?

  Callum had gone to bed not long after.

  “I wasn’t gonna pry if he wasn’t into talking,” Cecily had said, her voice low, after hearing the door to Callum and Zander’s bedroom close tight.

  Scott had moved from the chair in the far corner to the sofa—right beside her. “I know that,” he said as he reached ac
ross her and nabbed the remote from where Callum had left it. “It’s just... he’s processing. And when he’s processing, it’s better to leave him alone. He has to sort that shit out for himself.”

  She wasn’t sure he realized it, but Scott laid his arm along the back of the sofa behind her while he said it.

  A couple of hours later, she woke up against him like the night before. He stretched and opened his eyes when she lifted her head. When he looked down at her, he smiled.

  “I think that means we should go to bed,” he said.

  She’d nodded in agreement, even while she hated the fact that it meant he would go to his room without her.

  It wasn’t until she was brushing her teeth in the quiet house that the rain started again.

  And it wasn’t until she’d laid out all the blankets onto the sofa and slipped beneath the covers that the first flash of lightning illuminated the window, followed by a clap of thunder that rattled the house.

  Cecily’s heart was pounding and her hands were clammy, her skin felt shaky and cold. She closed her eyes and wished for sleep, telling her body to relax, willing her limbs to loosen.

  But every time she made any progress—every time her heart rate started to decrease, or she felt herself sink into the pillows in that here-comes-sleep way—another roll of thunder would scatter her progress like the baritone growl of some huge animal, lurking outside the door.

  God, this was stupid.

  She was twenty-three fucking years old! How could she still be this afraid of a thunderstorm?

  She knew the science behind it—she knew why thunder happened, how lightning was created. She’d learned all about it, and she could logic her way through the science of it all she wanted. But the science made zero difference to her heart when that sound echoed in her ears.

  For all her education, her smarts, and the years she’d lived, surviving thunderstorms all along the way, she was a ten-year-old child in the midst of one, huddling under a blanket on the verge of tears, wishing like hell she wasn’t alone.

  Fuck it.

  Cecily pushed herself up off the sofa, snatched her pillow and tucked her arms around it, then quietly padded down the hall.