Chapter 6

We're in our new apartment. It's wonderful to have our own space and to let the boys run wild like boys do. We have a swimming pool and a playground. We have movie parties and living room picnics because we don't have a couch yet, and we're so happy.

I know I should be proud that we've made such a large venture out on our own, but I'm terrified . What if I don't get an amazing job for next year? (I just interviewed at First Coast Christian for an English position.) What if my book never sells and I have one more failure under my belt? What if someone breaks in to our little apartment, and our murder story ends up on Dateline? What if I can't make it on my own? What if I spend everything sipping herbal tea, watching Netflix, and talking to my cat?

This is why I write - to avoid the scariness of reality. At least in the books, I can control things.

I haven't worked the necromancer book much lately because I've actually been busy rewriting that other one, the one I'll eventually get paid for, but I can't let my four fans down. The necromancer must live! She must keep going or the apocalypse will be here before we know it.

Chapter 6

            Mom wakes me from the dream. I rub my hands over my face, taking the time to determine if I’m living in the vision or here in reality. I crack my stiff neck as I sit up to look around. We’re still in the pimpmobile, but we’re not parked at our house like I expected. The enormous building in front of me is ancient, with crumbling coquina walls and a wooden drawbridge. It’s been so long since I’ve been here that it takes me a moment to realize we’re at the Castillo de San Marco, St. Augustine’s historical fort.

The gray coquina fort sprawls across the land in front of the inlet waterway. The walls are thick and sturdy, but large dints are carved out from cannonball fire and centuries of withstanding hurricanes.

            My first necromancy experience was here, deep in the dungeons, where I was on a tour with my father. Every other necromancer in our family didn’t start seeing the dead until they’d reached puberty. But I was three years old.

I remember screaming about the bloody man, the ghost, and everyone staring at me, Dad snatching me up and carrying me out. He spanked me once we were out of the crowds’ view. Then he set me down on a bench in the middle of the fort’s open courtyard. He pointed his finger in my face, warning me that I must never do that again. That I was a bad girl.

            “You’re crying,” Mom says, pulling me out of the memory.

I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I was having a nightmare.”

            “About what?”

            I glance at the fort. “That the Purple Ladies discontinued their Luscious Lipstick line. Could you imagine if that happened? What would the world do?”

            Mom brushes the damp hair from my face. “What did you really dream about?”

            “Nothing. What are we doing here?”

            “I got an emergency Freeing call on the way home.”

            I glance at the dashboard clock. “It’s one in the morning and I have school tomorrow. The ghosts can wait.”

            “No, they can’t. We need the money. And I thought this would be a perfect time to let you work a ritual on your own, and get some practice.”

            I want to argue, but it won’t do any good. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can go home and get into bed.  “What are we dealing with?” I ask.

“The fort’s head park ranger said the water in the moat has turned to blood, there was an attack, and the governor is visiting tomorrow. They’re trying to get more funding and don’t want to make a bad impression.”

            “It might just be pollution. Red tide. I saw something about it on the news once.”

            “It isn’t red tide. It’s blood,” Mom says, like bloody water is more logical than pollution. “It has to be the ghost of General Hernandez and all those Indians he killed when he went nuts. You remember our local history, don’t you? The water turns red every ten years on the anniversary of the Natives’ deaths. If we don’t take care of them tonight, we might have to wait another decade to talk to Hernandez.”

            I hope I’m thousands of miles away from Ravines ten years from now, and a million miles away from my Freeing powers and the Mark on my wrist, hidden by my new birthday watch. But I’ll never be rid of it. I can’t cut a piece of myself away, can I? I’m stuck with seeing the dead for as long as I live.

I follow Mom up the cracked cement path that leads to the fort, but stumble as I cross the bridge. With all the battles fought here and epidemics that swept through the tight and unsanitary quarters, the fort is elbow to elbow with spirits. This is why I avoid St. Augustine as much as I can. Whenever I’m here I feel like a severe claustrophobic getting on the subway in New York City at rush hour. The whispering of the dead smoothers me, causing me to fall to my knees.

“Are you okay?” Mom asks “You’re as white as a ghost.” She giggles because she loves telling people this because ghosts aren’t white at all.

            The sprits are everywhere, standing like sentinels on the lookout towers, sitting on the rim of the high walls watching me, bombarding me with a thousand pleas for help. I clamp my hands over my ears, and go into the fetal position.

            “You have to block them out,” Mom says. “Think of something that makes you feel alive.”

            I think of Blake, laughing and talking with him. Kissing him. Then for some reason the image of the Reaper pops into my head. He smiles at me, says my name, and I can almost feel the heat he puts off. The screams quiet, fading into a dull roar, like the crash of the waves against the coquina walls of the fort. Soon the ghosts are nothing but a buzz in my ear, no louder than white noise.

            How can a dead man make me feel alive?

            “There. Much better,” Mom says as she helps me up. “What’d you think about?”

            “None of your business.”

            She smirks at me. “It was Blake, wasn’t it?”

            “Oh, look! There’s the park ranger.” I wave over to the ranger like we’re long lost friends because I don’t want to confirm Mom’s suspensions, or tell her that the thought of the Reaper also calmed me. 

            “Hey, Judy,” the young woman says. The ranger has red hair and pretty pale skin and is maybe three of four years older than me. It’s the middle of the night, but she’s dressed in her full khaki ranger uniform. “This must be your daughter, Cass. I’m Rachael. I suppose your mother has briefed you on the situation.” Before I can say yes, she continues, hitting us with a full-scale ranger narration. “Over two hundred years ago, during the second Spanish occupation, there was a land dispute between the Spaniards and the Timicuan tribe.”

            “Let me guess. The Spanish just took whatever land they wanted,” I respond.

            “Yes,” she says, impressed, like I’ve answered the hardest history essay question ever. “The Timicuan chief and the general made a treaty, promising the Timicuans property where the Fountain of Youth flowed. But instead of fulfilling his end of the bargain, General Hernandez took the natives out to the middle of Matanzas Bay—Matanzas means massacre in Spanish, by the way—he reneged on the agreement. One by one, he slit the throats of the tribe members and tossed them into the water at high tide.”

            “That’s why the water in the moat and in the Bay is red,” Mom says.

            “Who was attacked by the ghosts?” I ask.

            “A tourist from Holland was strangled by Hernandez this afternoon. He’s recovering in the hospital right now. A school group of fifth graders witnessed the whole thing.”

            “All of them saw Hernandez? He’s pulling off a full-bodied apparition to thirty people? He’s very powerful.” Now Mom is impressed.

            “And the red water in the moat is freaking everyone else out,” Rachel says. Governor Cummings will be here first thing in the morning.”

            “Don’t worry. We’ll exorcise your demons,” Mom says, smiling at her own joke. “Should we lock up when we’re done?”

            “No. I’ll be waiting in my car. Just let me know when the ghost is gone.”

            Mom salutes Rachael and I follow her out of the fort. We walk down the sloping hill at the back side until we reach the coquina seawall. Mom sets up a circle of candles and places a ceremonial bowl in the middle. Then she looks to me. “Call the Timicuans.”

            I hesitate. I’m usually the blood donor, but that doesn’t mean I love slicing into my own skin. I pull the iron knife from the sheath below my shirt and draw the blade across my palm, wincing at the pain. The bayberry tea helps with the healing, but nothing eases the shock of pain. I squeeze my hand into a fist. The blood runs down my wrist, dripping onto the seawall below my feet.

         “Blood for blood, life for life. Come to me. Accept my sacrifice.”

The second I’m done, the dead rise. Some of the Indians pop out of the water like possessed sharks, while others slither up like electric eels. They pull themselves from the sea and climb the wall. No matter how they come, or how used I am to things like this, it’s disconcerting.

            Since they weren’t dead when they were tossed into the bay, their bodies are bloated. Most have a red arch across their neck. The man dressed in a headdress of bright blue and green feathers is covered in knife wounds, the black blood still oozing from every cut. He lunges for me, hands outstretched in claws.

            “You!” he screams. “You will pay for our deaths. My entire tribe wiped out for you selfish white men.” His English is broken, but I have no trouble getting what he means. He pulls a bow from behind his back, notches the arrow on the string, and sends it whizzing past me.

            Not expecting to be attacked, I don’t have the chance to brace myself, and I fall backwards. He leaps for me, and from my position on the ground, I shove my iron knife into his stomach. He stays suspended above me, stunned. Then he vaporizes, but not before coating me with a sheen of his blood.

            I roll to my side and spit out the blood that had dripped into my mouth. I sit on the rough coquina wall, wishing I wasn’t out in the middle of a school night fighting disgruntled Native Americans. With the point of my knife, I pick at the small shells in the wall, flicking some of them off. Across the inlet the lighthouse directs ships home. There are a few sail boats drifting in low tide, waiting for the water to rise and take them on to better destinations. I wish I had something to guide me away from here, away from all this death.

            A rush of icy winds hits my back, causing my ponytail to swirl around my face. I shift my weight to turn around, but before I can look back, I’m pushed off the seawall. On my hands and knees, I hit the packed, wet sand below. A second later, Mom lands next to me, except she’s face-first.

            She sits up and wipes the sand from her mouth, causing her lipstick to smear across her cheek. “Now I’m pissed. We’re not doing this the nice way. No talking him down or showing him the light. We’re going to find him, trap him in the conjure circle, and send him back to Purgatory.”

            “You’ve always told me that ritual for that was too dangerous.”

            “Not now with your powers in full effect. You’ll do all the heavy necromancy.”

            I stand and pull Mom to her feet. “There’s a reason I don’t wear makeup,” I say, pointing to her mouth. “Especially for ghost hunting.”

            She pulls a compact mirror from her purple pocket. “Oh, no! Just look at this.” She rubs the smudged lipstick away with the back of her hand, and reapplies a fresh coat of Whimsically Wine. Then at a run, Mom takes off, across the beach, up the stairs, and over the seawall. I have no choice but to follow her.

            Once we are back on the fort grounds, she says, “I just saw him slip into an upstairs window in the fort.”

            We run up the walkway, pausing at the ranger’s car. “What’s the alarm code?” I yell.

“7856,” Rachael says. She rolls her window up, like the thin sheet of glass will keep out a poltergeist.

Mom punches in the numbers and the drawbridge lowers. We’re met by a line

of dead Spanish soldiers who are blocking our way. We could just run right through them, but going through a spirit always makes me feel light headed. 

“Move!” I holler. They looked shocked for a moment, but do what I command.

We run through the courtyard and to the second floor, once we get there we realize there are no rooms, just an open deck with watchtowers at every corner.

“Call him again,” Mom says.

I take a deep breath and pull the knife over my palm again. “Away from this world, you must turn. From ashes you came, to dust you shall return.”

He doesn’t show. We wait a full five minutes, and nothing happens. “That’s was anti-

climatic.” I say. “Did I do something wrong?’

“No, he’s just being a jerk. The really bad spirits don’t have to come if they don’t want to. There is a way to make them obey, but it would probably kill the both of us.”

“Where could he be?” I ask. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

“I forgot,” Mom says, stopping short. “There’s rumored to be a secret room here. Maybe that’s where he is?”

“Do you know where it is?” I ask.

“She shakes her head. No one does. The staff at the fort have been looking for it for years, and no one can find it.” Mom sits on one of the benches in the lower courtyard. “The sun will be up soon, and you have school. I’ll put up a protection against malicious spirits. That should be enough until we can get back here and exorcise Hernandez back to Purgatory. I’ll Free the Native Americans, too. Go on home.” Mom says, tossing me the car keys. “I’ll have Rachael give me a ride.” Mom says before disappearing back into the fort.

I slide behind the wheel of the pimpmobile. As I reach up to adjust the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of the Reaper who is sitting in my backseat. His cold, grey eyes fix on mine as he leans forward to grab my shoulder.

Chapter 5

I've been glued to my computer all week. Normally I'm writing, but right now I'm lesson planning. It's exhausting and Summer School hasn't even started yet. Yawn. Oh, and I'll be moving next week. I haven't done anything but take care of the boys, work, and sleep (when Ben allows), but I've been dying to work on this book. And the other book. You know, the real one that I'm under contract for. Have mercy! But I can't let my five fans down. I've got to get this book written for them. Please, overlook the typos.

                                                Chapter 5

The Reaper has no black flowing robes, no fog surrounding his feet, no long scythe in a skeletal hand. He’s the boy I’ve been seeing. For a moment, his eyes are as black as the forgotten pits of Purgatory, but then change back to a pale grey, almost colorless.

“Cassandra,” he says.

The way he says my name is like a caress and I close my eyes and lean toward him even though I shouldn’t. I can’t help but want to touch him, just to see if he’s real.

“You have been Marked.” His voice is rough, like hot gavel beneath bare feet, but somehow soothing like the summer sun after a thunderstorm.

“Come with me,” he says. “The Afterworld waits for you. I wait for you.”

“No,” I say, backing away. 

He gives me a sad smile. “You will love me,” he says, but his tone isn’t arrogant. His words are steady and sure, like he’s seen the future. “Let me show you what awaits you.” As he moves toward me, I notice the small brand of a black sickle on his inner wrist. It matches mine. He doesn’t touch me, but he waves his hand over my face, taking me to another time and place.

 

I walk through a shear gray veil into deeper darkness, my bare feet sinking into the fine, black sand. The smell of ash and blood tickle the back of my throat. The buzz of lost souls swells as I continue down a path lined with twisted, barren trees. Like I’ve been here before I know where I am going, and I know I am myself.

The path opens up to a dark room. At first I see nothing, but blackness. For a moment, I think I am alone, but then I hear him. “Cassandra.” His voice surrounds me, beckoning me forward. Even though I can’t see him yet, I know where he is, and I fight the urge to run to him.

The pit at the middle of the room and it ignites, filling the room with a bluish hue. I look around and see that the walls are bear and the room is empty except for a black throne that could seat two people and a bed filled with lush black velvet linens that remind me of cooled lava. Just seeing at the bed makes me nervous, so I look away.

As the Reaper turns to me, the light of the flames flicker across his pale skin, giving him a false glow of life. “Reiner,” I say as I run to him and he catches me in midair as I leap for him. He lifts me higher as he takes ahold of my waist, and he smiles up at me as he spins me around. He sets me down, but keeps his arms encircling me. I lean into his chest. My eyes are level with the thick pink scar across his throat. I nuzzle against his neck, breathing in an ancient scent of soap and cigarettes. He kisses my forehead and then leads me over to the joined throne make of curving black wood and metal. I sit, expecting the seat to be hard and uncomfortable, but it cushions me like I’m sitting in a field of soft grass.

“I told you we would end up here.” He places his arm with his Mark right next to mine. When his skin touches mine, I feel a little shock in my chest, a pulse of energy. My entire body buzzes to life, like I’m being reborn.

“You were Marked because you are meant for me, meant to share my life,” Reiner says.

“The dead will rise soon, and when the world goes still, I will be there with you. We will fight and we will win. Then we can be together as we were always meant to be.”

I lean into him, and just before we kiss, I’m pushed out of the vision.

 

Reiner the Reaper is gone.

“Cass?”

            Mom stands above me, shaking my shoulders so hard that it feels like my brains are rattling around inside my skull. I blink into the darkness, and feel an ache in my chest, an emptiness for a love that will never be, a love I don’t even want.

            “What just happened?” My voice is raw, like I’ve come back from the dead. “Where is he?” I ask.

            “Who?”

            “The Reaper.”

            Mom’s eyes widen even more. “No Reaper here. Just us living.” She kneels beside me and brushes some of my blond hair from my face and kisses my forehead. “I thought you were a goner. You passed out after that showed up,” she says, pointing to the black sickle on my wrist. “I yelled your name, over and over. You wouldn’t respond. I slapped you across the face, trying to get you to wake up. Sorry”

I touch my cheek and discover it’s tender. “Ouch,” I say.

“They are always slapping unconscious people in movies. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t know what else to do.” As her eyes sweep over me, the moonlight catching on the tear tracks on her face. I must have really scared her.

As I sit up, the blood rushes to my head. Everything goes dark for a moment as I reorient myself. Once I can see straight again, I look at my inner wrist. The ugly Mark of the Reaper is still there. It looks like someone used a Sharpie and a stencil of a little sickle. I rub my thumb over the mark, like I can wipe away, but it’s permanent.

It can’t be me. There’s no way I’m supposed to be the girl who will save the world from Abaddon. I’d always hoped that once I graduated from high school, I could leave home and also all this necromancy behind. With the apocalypse chasing me, there’s no way I will get away from the dead. There must be some sort of mistake.

I crawl over to the Grimoire of the Dead, flip it open to the last page, and the words appear. Mom leans over my shoulder and reads, “The dead will ascend. The living will fall.  The broken sun will end, when Abaddon rules all. When everything falls away, only sacrifice can win. Her gift will bring day to night, and erase the first sin.” I glance back at Mom. She’s crying again, but I ignore her tears.

“I didn’t write that,” Mom says. “Did you write it?”

I shake my head. “It just appeared.” She nods her head slow, like it weighs a hundred pounds.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

            Mom shrugs. “I should have paid more attention in all those Sunday school classes my mom made me go to, but I remember a little bit. When the world ends, Abaddon will rise from Purgatory, brining all the dead with him. He will rule us all. Hell will be here on earth. I’m talking fire and brimstone. Torture. Swarms of locus. Plagues. Disease. And you think you’re life sucks now. You ain’t seen nothing yet, honey.”

“You aren’t forced to go to high school every day. It’s own kind of hell on the earth.”

She chortles, but then says, “It’s not a joke.” Mom is rarely serious, so it makes me shut up and listen. “The whole world will be writhing in pain and torment. That is until some fights Abaddon and wins.” She holds up my wrist with the black sickle mark on it. “I never thought this would happen.”

            “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mumble, snatching my arm away from her.

            “That’s not what I meant,” Mom says. “I guess I hoped the end would never get here. We’re having such a roaring good being alive.”

            “Being necromancing weirdoes.”

            She sighs. “You don’t get it, do you, Cass? How incredibly boring it is to be normal? People dream of being special, and you are.” She takes my hand again, turning my wrist until my forearm is facing up, and we’re both are forced to stare at my new black tattoo again. “I take it all back. I’m not surprised. You’re the most powerful one of us in generations.”

            “I’m not,” I say.

            “I know you don’t like talking about any of this, but, yes you are. You can control the dead. They listen to you when they won’t listen to anyone else. You have a natural gift. You bring life to the dead. You bring peace. You read the prophecy with me. One day, you will bring light to the darkness.”

            I think of a hundred different sarcastic remarks, but all I can picture is the Reaper and what he’s shown me. How it natural it felt to be with him in Purgatory.

            “There’s more to the prophecy,” I say. “I saw it in my book this afternoon.” I take the book up and flip to the very back page. The words are back again. “With the Reaper’s Mark, she will gather the dead. For in Purgatory the army will be bred. The Reaper she will love. The Reaper she will hate. The world’s balance hangs on love’s fate.”

            “You’re going to fall in love with a Reaper!” Mom exclaims as she paces in front of a tombstone. “Well, isn’t this every mom’s dream?” She throws her hands up. “Not a bad boy or a chauvinist or a sadist. A Reaper. Fantastic! Will you have little demon babies with him? Can I visit you in hell?”

I grab her shoulders, trying to force her to stay still. She pushes past me and keeps moving. “I’m not going to fall in love with him,” I call after her

She striding down the line of graves, turns on her heels, and walks back up the row again. “I said the same thing about your father. And look at me now! A thirty-nine-year-old divorcee with two kids, a fulltime job that barely pays the bills, and no romantic prospects. I saw the look on your face when you talked about the Reaper. I can tell he’s hot.”

“How handsome he is doesn’t matter.”

She stops so short and she almost trips over a grave marker. “Cassandra Marie Charon, you’re a strong independent woman—I raised you to be one—but you’re a sucker for a pretty face.”

“I’m not a sucker,” I say.

“Oh, you’re a sucker, alright. If Blake’s drunken mother wouldn’t have come out onto the front porch tonight, you would have kissed that boy. You probably would have let him get you into the backseat of his BMW and have his way with you, even after he never called you after last summer.”

“I never told you what happened,” I say.

“Cass, I was there to pick you up. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw you two kiss. You got grumpier and grumpier. I’m not as dumb as you think I am. I put it all together. I figured he never called. Blake Harrington is a beautiful human specimen, but he’s also a conceded jerk.” She glanced back at my sickle. “Maybe you should go for the Reaper instead. He might not break your heart.” She starts pacing again.

“Mom! We’re not talking about my love life anymore.” I stop her and force her to look at me. “What about me gathering the dead? What about the army being trained in Purgatory.”

She shrugs. “I have no idea. None. All I do know is that I need cake. A lot of cake.” She picks up the pink pastry box from the tombstone.

“Me, too,” I say. I take the cake from her, and I don’t bother with cutting or plating it. With a fork, I dig in, and a moment later, Mom does the same. We sit on the marble slab of a mausoleum, setting the cake between us, and eat it until it’s gone.

When I stand up to leave, I feel the rush of the sugar high and the rise of nausea. I ate too much, too fast. And all I can think about is the Reaper, Purgatory, and the end of the world. All of the sudden, it’s like I’m back in the Afterworld with him. The cries of the damned ring in my ears, and I gag on the scent of flesh burning in fires. I try to run out of the graveyard, but don’t make it before barfing on a marble angel and all over a freshly dug plot. This is the second time I’ve tossed my cookies today. That can’t be a good sign.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I straighten up and look at what I’ve done. “I guess I’m already going to hell with the Reaper,” I say. “So it doesn’t matter if I desecrate human remains, too.” I bite my lip, thinking of the mourning family coming to visit their dearly departed, only to find throw up all over the new grave. “Should I get a garden hose and wash it off?”

Mom looks from me to the angel, and then back to me. The crease in between her brow seems deeper set tonight. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m wonderful,” I say. “The best I’ve ever been. I’m responsible for the rise or the fall of the living. It took me three tries to pass the driving test. I’m sure I’ll ace the end of the world.”

I look at my mother. Even through her heavy covering of makeup, I can see that she’s paled.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll make the end of the world my bitch.”

“Don’t swear,” she says. “Just because the apocalypse is nigh, is no excuse to forget your manners. You are after all a Southern lady.”

“Yes, Mother,” I say, rolling my eyes.

As we pack up our belongings and head to the car, rain drizzles down, and then gets heavier, pelting the bare skin of my shoulders. We rush down the row of tombstones and jump into the purple pimpmobile. After I buckle up and Mom starts the engine, I say, “I guess I don’t have to feel guilty for puking on that grave. The rain will wash away all evidence of my vandalism.”

“Thank goodness for that.” We drive for a little while and she catches me examining my sickle mark. “You might want to cover that up,” she says. “I’m not sure the PTA would think too highly of me if they think I let my youngest daughter get a tattoo for her birthday.” She leans across me to open the glove box, fishes around for a moment, and then comes up with a blown bracelet, a much thicker version of my other bracelet. Instead of one strand, there are five stacked on top of each other. I slip it on and it’s large enough to cover up the sickle mark.

“Thanks,” I say.

We’re at a stop light, so she leans over and brushes the wet strands of hair from my face. “It’s going to be okay, Cass. We’ll get through this.”

I nod and turn my attention back to the rain falling on the windshield. I should tell her about the strange visions, but it’s too much for tonight. She just found out that her daughter is signed on for the freaking apocalypse. The visions can wait.

The light changes back to green, and as she rolls through the empty intersection, she says, “What was his name?”

“Reiner. Reiner the Reaper.”

            Mom gnaws at her lip, getting red lipstick on her teeth. “What did he look like?”

            I don’t want to answer because even in my subconscious, I am drawn to him. “Tall, blond, pale grey eyes, about my age, and dressed like he was in the military. He’s ripped the swastikas off his uniform, but he was definitely in Hitler’s army.”

“I’ve heard of him. He’s new, but very powerful, already the second in command in Purgatory. They say that this Reaper is more brutal than any other.”

“Yippee.”

I lean my head against the passenger window. The drive home isn’t long, but I’m so

exhausted from the last twelve hours that the second I close my eyes, I fall asleep.

 

            The rising sun, filters through the shabby curtains covering a small window above me. I lie on my back, a lumpy mattress beneath me. When I attempt moving, I discover my ankles are bound to the foot railing and my arms are tied to the headboard.

            “I thought I heard you.” His voice comes from the shadowy corner of the dark room. His face is always obscured by shadows.

            “Where are we?” I ask.

            “We’re in our house by the creek. Don’t you remember? I showed it to you once when we were on my boat.”

            A tear rolls into my hairline. Not wanting him to see, I turn my head from him.

            “You must be hungry. It’s almost morning.”

            I jump as much as my restraints allow when his hand brushes the clumped, sweat-drench strands of my hair away from my forehead.

            “I brought you some broth. I’ve noticed you’ve put on a little weight. I want you to look good in your wedding dress.”

 

 

Never, Never, Never Give Up!

Look, Winston, I'm trying. But I want to throw my hands up in the air, not to wave them like I just don't care, but in exasperation. I want to give up. Wouldn't it be easier to say, I tried and failed? I got pretty far with my book, but no thanks, I'm done.

 

I got my book back from my editor a few weeks ago, and I can barely stand to look at it. I open up the document, stare at it for a few minutes, and then close it. I often eat a piece of cake and take a bath afterwards. It all seems like too much effort on a lost hope. The editor did a wonderful job, but it's just shown me how much my book needs, and it makes me sad.

 

I am not a good writer. I am a good story-maker-upper. I can come up with great plots, with twists and turns, but I struggle with wringing emotions out of written words. I'm a very pragmatic person and think everyone else is, too.

 

I love dialog. Love it so much that I wish it was all I could write. I'm horrible at giving books a sense of place. I think all I need to say is, "located in the woods", and that's enough. That's the kind of reader I am. I skip over the scenery detail because I like to come up with my own image of the world. But I'm working on all this.

 

Writing is hard. It's scary.  It constantly tells me I'm not good enough. Maybe I'm a sadist. I like challenges. I like bleeding over my laptop and rewriting and editing. But then I want to cry and chuck the whole thing into a blender full of margarita mix.

 

 

But then I look at RDJ. I don't want to make Iron Man sad. He doesn't want me to quit. Be it tenacity or stupidity, I refuse to give up! I'm one of those horribly untalented, tone deaf buffoons who try out for America Idol year after year, only to humiliate themselves over and over. Maybe some sympathetic publishing company will give me a book deal because they feel so bad for me. Keep hope alive, right? Keep on keeping on.

I must remember that the things I really want won't come easy. Struggling is part of the process. The struggle makes me grateful I have what I have. It teaches humility and grace. But holy moly. Can't something come easy for once? Can't someone just hand me what I want. Nope. I sound ungrateful, don't I? I have been blessed and blessed and blessed, but it's also been hard, hard, hard. I'm ready for life to settle and be as peaceful as it can be.

So whatever your dream, don't give it up, and don't stop believing that you can have everything your little heart desires.

Chapter 4

Sorry this has taken me so long to post. My life kind of exploded. What's new? I feel last six months of my life consists of journal entries that go as followed, "Dear Journal, something else horrible happened. Jesus, take the wheel." I honestly don't know if things will ever right themselves, but hopefully life is on an upswing. I really need it. I need a break, a good night's sleep, an answered prayer, a date with sexy lumberjack (think Hugh Jackman without the claws), and a giant brownie. Hopefully I'll be teaching summer school soon, the boys will be relaxing, and the summer of 2014 will be the summer of awesomeness. Every journal entry will be about butterflies and brownies.

The good news is that we found a really cute apartment in Orange Park. It's right next to the police substation, so it feels nice and secure. And there's a community pool right behind our building. It's not ready for two more weeks, but it was such a good deal that I couldn't pass it up. Every other  apartment in our price range gave me the creeps and this one gives me peace.

But, you're really here for the next chapter. At least that's what I hope. So, here you go.

Chapter 4

            “Girl, are you okay?”

It takes me a long moment to reorient myself, to realize I’m not in the vision anymore, but here in the real world. I blink several times, trying to bring myself back into focus, and when I do, I see a hand waving in front of my face.

 A girl that belongs to the waving have stands in front of me. She is my age with dark skin and big brown eyes, and while not overweight, she’d probably look a lot thinner if she wasn’t popping out of the outfit she’s squeezed herself into. She has on a short red skirt, a low-cut leopard-print top that is struggling to cover her overwhelming cleavage. Her black hair is tied up in what looks like two puff balls on her head.

“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m really not. I’ve never been okay. I’ve always lived on the edge of life and death and it’s draining.  

“You must really be into useless high school trophies,” the living girl in front of me says.

I turn to her, still trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not, and why I’m seeing more than just ghosts. “Oh, I am.”

            “What’s your name?” she asks.

            “Cass,” I say.

            “Ruby.” She takes out a lipstick from her purse and applies it to her puckered lips. 

“Lipstick number 57 in the Red Hot series?” I ask.

            She smiles. “Girl, I like you. Raunchy Red is my color. How did you know? Do you sell Purple Ladies?” Her eyes are wide and hopeful, like makeup is better than donuts.

“My mom does. I can get you the friends and family discount, if you like.”

She grabs me and pulls me into her a tight hug. Stunned at the embrace, I stumble back a little when she releases me. “Thanks, best friend,” she says.

She starts talking about makeup, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. Instead I hear, a now all too familiar voice. “Cassandra.” I catch a glimpse of him in the reflective glass of the trophy case. I spin around and reach for my knife, expecting him to be sneering down at me, but he’s no longer there.

            Her penciled eye brows knit together as she notices my hand moving beneath the back of my shirt. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Ruby asks.

“My bra came unhooked.” I return my knife to its sheath wiggle around a like I’m trying to re-hook it to sell to lie.

“Oh, I hate when that happens,” she says. “My girls have a mind of their own sometimes.” She tries to press a mound of her cleavage back into her shirt, but it pops right back out.

Though I hear the air conditioning kick on overhead, the lobby warms. Sweat drips down my hairline and slides down my neck. I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing what I’ll see if I open them. I back away, wanting to get to the exit.

“Where are you going?” Ruby asks.

I open one eyes, and when I don’t see the dead guy or Brittany, I open the other. “I’m going home. I hate orientations.”

“But it’s mandatory.” she says.

“I don’t care,” I respond. “Just sign my name on the attendance roll. They won’t know the difference.” I turn and bolt to the door.

“What’s your last name?” she asks.

“Charon. Cass Charon.” If my weird behavior wasn’t enough to scare her away, knowing my last name will be enough. I made and lost my first friend in Ravines in a matter of minutes. That’s just how talented I am at relationships.

I run out to the parking lot, planning to jog all the way home, but find Mom still sitting in her purple pimpmoble, applying a second coat of makeup. I yank open the passenger door and slid into the seat.

“Is it over already?” Mom asks. Her compact clicks back together. I can manage is a nod. Mom stares at me for a moment, waiting for a further explanation, but when none comes, she starts the car. As we drive home, she doesn’t say anything to me. I close my eyes and listen to air rush through the windows until Mom parks in front of our house.

I hear her say something to me, but don’t know what. She waits a beat, but then goes inside, leaving me in the car. I study our house. From the outside, it looks like any Southern house, with its wraparound porch, white-washed wooden exterior, and blue shutters, but it’s known as a place where we kill chickens and drink their blood, where we dance with the devil. And worse of all, where my Mom hosts makeup parties.

I think about going inside, to help Mom prepare for tonight, but I know if I do, she’ll try to use me as her makeup model. I hate the witch rumors, but I hate hot pink blush even more.  

I stay where I am, cursing my life, until the back of my shirt is wet with perspiration. I get out of the car, and sit on the wooden swing hanging from a branch of a large oak tree near the back of our property. Daddy hung this swing when I was five years old. It was the last nice thing he did for me before he forgot I existed.

The toes of my sandals drag in the grey sand as I swing. Dusk has taken over the sky, filling the horizon with a hot blue and pink haze. Crickets and frogs chirp in the distant palmetto bushes, and I spot a lightening bug from time to time. This is the one thing I love about Ravines.

            A navy blue BMW pulls up and parks in the row of other cars, and I grind my teeth when I see Blake, with a pizza box in hand, exit the driver’s side. Even in the twilight, I see his intense aqua eyes smile at me.

            Blake’s Mom gets out of the driver’s side of the car. She has on just as much makeup as my mother, but she wears it better. She’s tiny compared to Blake and it’s hard to image she was ever taller than her son. Georgia is dressed in a hot pink sundress with embroidered green alligators all over it, and her bleach blond hair is in a French twist.

            “Hello, Cass!” she calls to me as she enters the house. Georgia has a Southern accent sweeter than honeycombs. It’s easy to see how she won all those beauty contests, and to see where Blake gets his charm and good looks. Blake hangs back a little, watching me as he leans on the hood of his BMW.

I roll my eyes at her, but stay where I am. I turn to Blake, and ask, “Why are you here?”

            He glances at me out of the corner of his eyes, and then surprises me by telling the truth. “My mom’s license was revoked when she tried to drive home from the country club after having one too many spiked iced teas, and plowed into the Welcome to Ravines sign. We were lucky. Sheriff Michaels is the one who found her. He covered up as much of it as he could. She probably should have spent some time in jail, but Dutch always liked her.”

            “Is she okay?” I ask. “Is she doing better?”

            “No,” he says. He lays his head on my shoulder. I want to push him away, but it seems a little too heartless since he’s talking about his alcoholic mother. “I’m glad you’re here. You have a way about you that makes me forget all the bad stuff. We had fun all those summers, didn’t we? Especially the last one.”

            For just a moment, my mouth twitches into a smile. “I guess we did. But the summer is over. It has been for a long time.”

            This gets him to sit up and shift away from me a little. With the back of his hand, he wipes sweat from his brow. “It’s too hot. How much longer do you think they’ll be?” He nods his head toward the house.

            “Hours.” The makeup parties go longer than the séances.

            He stands, and for a moment, I’m relieved that he might be leaving. It’s much easier to hate Blake from afar. With him so close, I want to forgive everything. He offers me a hand and pulls me to my feet. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

He opens the passenger door, and against my better judgment, I get in. Anything has to be better than thinking about Brittany and the blond boy ghost who is haunting me. I need something to take my mind off of my troubles, and Blake is a handsome and charming distraction. It makes me weak, but I like being with Blake. He makes me feel almost normal.

We motor down the dusty lane until we reach pavement, where Blake shifts the gears to increase our speed. After ten minutes, he stops the car. I squint into the darkness. We’re somewhere along Black Creek, but I have no idea where. The creek winds on for miles through the town.

Out here, far from town, the darkness swallows up everything. The stars swell and weave into the Milky Way, but the starlight isn’t enough. I can’t see three feet in front of me. I couldn’t even see a ghost if one was right in front of my face.

I get out of the car, remove my shoes, and walk down the marshy embankment. The brown water ripples against my ankles, cool against my skin, as I wade deeper. I stop and look back at Blake, who is sitting on the hood of his car. He left the headlights on, so he is the all I can see in the darkness.

            “Want to go swimming?” I call over my shoulder.

            As an answer, Blake pulls his shirt off and wades in. Before he can reach me, I dive in and am thankful I wore a black top and skipped the mascara. There’s nothing less attractive than raccoon eyes when you’re trying to look self-assured.

            Blake dips under, and when he emerges, his dark hair falls onto his forehead until he pushes it back. “Did you hear there’s a party down at Doctors Lake this Friday?”

            “I’m going with my new boyfriend,” I say, lying. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness and I can see him clearer in the moonlight.

            “You’re going with me, then?” He chuckles as I splash him with a wave of creek water, but he dodges it. “I’m looking forward to seeing you in a bikini again. But seeing you in your underwear and tank top is almost as good. It leaves just the right amount to the imagination, and I have a vivid imagination,” he said, winking at me.

            “Stop winking!”

            “Why can’t I wink at you?”

            “Because you have a girlfriend.”

            He stands up fast, like someone kicked him. “No, I don’t.”

            “You’re not seeing anyone?” I ask.

            “Right now, just you.” He gives me that cocky half smile and winks again. He laughs and lunges at me, pulling us both under the water. When we come up for air, I ask, “Have you heard from Brittany?”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “You know, your girlfriend.”

            “She’s not my girlfriend.”

            “Do you know where she is?”

            “No. Why?”

            “I just. . .” How did I explain this without telling him about the dreams and the ghosts, without telling him what I am? “I think something bad has happened to her.”

“Brittany is fine. Last I talked to her she was going to Daytona for the weekend.”

“But her mother was worried.”

“Step-mother,” he says, correcting me. “And in case you missed it, the new Mrs. Moore is a little nutty. And why are you worried about where she is? Do you want to ruminate on what a wonderful kisser I am?”

            “No.”

I turn away from him and look back up at the sky covered sky. The crickets’ chirping lulls us into a calm as we float, silent and still as driftwood.

 

            Water splashes over my hot face, waking me from unconsciousness.

            “You’re not going to fight me this time, are you?” he asks. 

            Unable to speak, I shake my head, and try to focus on him, but my vision blurs. I can’t make out any of his features.

            “Good. You caused such a scene before. I wanted this to be a happy time, but you wouldn’t cooperate.”

            Whatever he drugged me with has left my mind unable to focus, but I try to take in my surroundings. We at a cabin, but there are no other dwellings around us. There is nothing but darkness and trees. This could be my last chance to escape. I might get lost in these woods, but at least I’ll be away from him. I know now I’ll do whatever I can because if I don’t I’ll die out here.

            He hauls me to my feet, and I stumble forward as blood rushes away from my head. He still has hold of my arms and, because I’m so weak, I lean into him. I reach for his lips, but before our mouths touch, I knee him in the groin.

            While he rolls around on the porch, I grab the keys he dropped, and run from the house. I get into his car, and ram the key into the ignition so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break off. I crank the engine, but nothing happens. I swear and hit the sterling wheel. When I try to start the car again, it sputters to life. I look into the rearview mirror and push the car into reverse. I face forward, but as I turn the wheel, the door retches open and I’m pulled out of the car by my hair.

 

Choking, I spring up to stand, alarming Blake.

            “Are you okay?” Blake asks. “You were kind of out of it. Your eyes were blank.”

            Without waiting for him to follow, I exit the water and trudge up the bank. I ring out my shirt and turn back to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks as he follows me out of the water. “Did you . . . see something? A ghost?”

“Yeah. Cass Charon local nercomancing freak,” I say, raising my hand.

“To me you’re just Cass Charon, local beauty.”

“Shut up,” I say, rolling my eyes at him, but I can’t help but smile.

Blake smiles at me, and then fishes two towels out of the trunk. He hands me one and drapes the other one over my shoulders. He kisses me on the forehead, and then says, “Wait here for a second.” He disappears into the dark and comes back a second later with a small pink box.

He lays the blanket out a few feet from the headlights and I join him. He pulls out a miniature cake with a candle on the top tier, two plastic forks, and a lighter. Then he sings happy birthday.

“I didn’t know you could sing so well,” I say, surprised at his beautiful his voice.

I actually make Blake blush. “Just blow out your candles.”

            I do and I wish for normalcy, even though I know it’s a false hope. We sit by the creek and eat the cake until our clothes are dry. We would stay longer, but I promised Mom I’d be home for the Marking ritual. The scent of honeysuckle drifts in through the open windows of the car as we drive back toward Ravines. When we reach the house, I notice all the cars are gone. Blake takes my hand as we walk up the porch steps. Leaning against the door, I turn to tell him goodnight, but before I can say anything, his head tilts down toward mine.

I press my palm into his chest, keeping him at a distance. “I don’t think so,” I say.

Blake gives me a real frown. His hands fall away from me, and then says, “I’m sorry for last summer. I screwed everything up, didn’t I?”

I start to tell him, I don’t forgive him, but before I can, his mother rips open the door. Georgia stands, staring at me for a moment until she bubbles over in a fit of giggles. Her teased blond hair looks like she fell asleep on it, and her lipstick is smeared. Blake’s smile falters as he steadies her before she topples over.

“Happy Birthday, Cass!” Georgia stammers. She toasts me with a silver flask. “I’m drinking in your honor.”

“I thought you weren’t going to drink anything tonight, Mamma,” Blake says through tight lips. He yanks the flask out of her hand and shoves it in the pocket of his jeans.

Mom rushes out after her. “I was putting Anna to bed, and Georgia said she was just going to watch TV downstairs.”

“It’s just a splash of something I brought from home.” Mrs. Harrington hiccups and Blake glares at her. He ushers her out the door without saying goodbye. I can’t blame him for wanting to get out of here as soon as possible. If there is anyone who understands getting embarrassed by their mother, I do.

            “Where have you and Blake been,” Mom asks. “Want to tell me about it?”

“No.”                                 

She huffs out a breath. “Fine. Let’s get to your Marking ritual.” She grabs her necromancer bag and I follow her out of the house. We take a short drive, and when Mom parks the car, I say, “A cemetery. Really, Mom? Could this be more cliché?”

            “Hey, I didn’t make up the ritual.”

            I step through the metal gates. I see nothing but headstones, and hear nothing but the sound of my feet as crunch across the gravel. Mom hands me the gray leather book that I saw on the kitchen table earlier today, and says, “Happy Birthday. Your very own Book of the Dead.”. I open up the book, but it’s blank again, not a single word about the Reaper or the end of the world.

            On the marble slab of a mausoleum, Mom sets up the ceremonial bowls and candles. She builds a small fire, places an old iron pot over the flames, and pours grave water and a bunch of bayberry leaves inside.

            Mom’s face takes on a stern look as she says, “Give me your left wrist,” Mom says. She takes a handful of warm, wet leaves and wraps them around my wrist. “Spirits of the Afterworld, no longer will you roam. I offer you my daughter to guide you home. Is she the one to bring light to the dark? Tell me, spirits, does she bear the Reaper’s Mark?”

            My skin glows and burns. I have to bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. I look up at Mom for guidance, but her brown eyes are wide with fear. The leaves covering my arm burn to ash and fall away.

            On the underside of my wrist, a small sickle blazes red and then turns to black.

            Then the blond boy I’ve been seeing appears.

            “You’re the Reaper?” I ask.

            He smirks down at me. “I’m surprised it took you so long to figure out.”