Chapter 2

I have so much going on right now. I'm getting prepared to teach summer school, I'm stressing about what I should do next year (teaching at a private school or continuing subbing at different schools), working on rewrites with my editor, being the Buffy Summers of single moms, finding a place to live, and trying to run enough to burn off all my stress-cake eating. The only thing I do for fun is watch Netflix and work on my old ghost/reaper/apocalypse book. Yay for a hot Reaper, a tough Necromancer girl, and a gorgeous regular guy to take my mind off my troubles.

And can we talk about how exhausting it is to be a single mother? I thought being a stay at home mom was hard. Have mercy! I'm grateful I have custody of my boys, but I am their sole caretaker now. Not that I had much help before, but doing everything on my own is so intense that sometimes I don't know how I make it to the end of the day. I know in time, once I'm more used to everything and our lives are a little more balanced, things will get better, but holy crap. Jesus Take the Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel!

But I digress, here's the rough, rough version of chapter two of the newish book I'm working on. Sorry for the typos and mistakes. This is why I have an agent and an editor.

 

Chapter 2

            The ghost’s skin isn’t ashen and opaque like usual, but pink—the color of the living. Sections of her blond hair are matted to her head. Her pretty face and her perfect nose are smudged with dirt and grim. Where ever she was before she died didn't have indoor plumbing. Perhaps her death is so fresh that she isn’t showing the signs of it yet. Her dark brown eyes are puffy, like she's been crying for days. The front of her shirt is wet with blood, glistening like spilled rubies in the sunlight. The dead are supposed to bleed black, like in a faded crime scene photo.

“I dreamed about you,” I said, realizing she is the girl I saw this morning. “You’re dead.”

She shakes her head and points to me. Spirits love to deny their passing. She reaches out, and I go for my iron knife, but before I can use the blade, she holds up her hands, palms forward in a sign of peace. Ghosts aren’t always friendly. It’s rare, but a spirit can kill you if it’s powerful enough.  

            “You must not know how this works. Like it or not, I’m a necromancer. You tell me how you died, who killed you, or whatever you have to say to move on with your life. . . I mean afterlife. Get on with it.” I motion for her to continue. When she doesn’t answer, I add, “I saw you before you died. You were chained up in some old, dank place. The Reaper took you.” I say.

She shakes her head again, causing her dirty blond hair to fall over her shoulders. "Not dead,” she whispers.

“Sorry, honey, if I’m seeing you, you are the dearly departed.”

She shakes her head. I’m about to tell her to stop wasting my time and leave me alone, but then someone else appears beside her. The dead guy is tall and trim, his cheekbones high and prominent, his skin so thin that blue veins show through in at his temples and along the sides of his neck. He’s dressed in black pants that are tucked into black knee-high boots. He has on a snug army green button up shirt. There are faded sections of fabric on it, where what look like patches used to be stitched on but have now been ripped off. His white blond hair brushes over his forehead, and when he moves it aside, he stares at me with piercing grey eyes that are so pale they are almost colorless.

“Cassandra,” he says, smirking at me like he knows all my secrets and they amuse him. His voice is deep and scratchy, just like the one I heard this morning in my room. He doesn’t look like any ghost I’ve ever seen either. If isn’t wasn’t for the long arching scar across his neck, he would look almost alive. I don’t know what he is though, because ghosts still have their mortal injuries, but his has healed.

“Who are you?” I ask him.

“We have met before,” he says. His accent is so think that it takes me a moment to understand him.

For a moment, I’m so entranced by the way his mouth moves as he speaks that I can’t answer. The way he says the words makes it sounds far more intimate than a normal ghost encounter.

"How the hell did you get into my house this morning?" I ask. "Ghosts aren't allowed in."

One side of his mouth curls up in a wicked grin. "I am not a ghost."

"I'm not dead either," the girl adds.

“Necromancers only deal in the dead, so if you two aren't ghost find another human to bother."

"But you are my favorite mortal," he says.

"I don't even know you."

"You will, very soon and very well."

            I step forward and swipe my knife at him, but before the blade can knick him, he disappears, taking the girl along with him.

I think about doing the incantation to call them back, but I won’t bother. Those two didn’t look dead, not really. They must be some sort of other dead-ish thing. Necromancers deal with ghosts, but there are other supernatural beings out there—vampires, liches, spectra, shades, ghouls, banshees, and demons. They could be anyone of those. And I don’t deal with anything that isn’t a spirit. I have to draw the line somewhere, don’t I?

I stay where I am, staring at the empty spot the two of them left. There was something familiar about the boy, but I can’t figure out what. Maybe the dreams and seeing non-ghosts beings are a sign I’m going bananas. I push it all out of my mind and jog through the woods and head toward the neighboring property.

The second I step over the property line, I’m hit by memories of my summers with Blake Harrington. For the last five years, I spent every summer with my grandparents. I might have protested being shipped off every June, but then I ran into Blake down by the creek that ran past his and my grandparent’s house when I went there to swim. I never complained again about visiting Ravines again.

At the age of twelve when every other boy his age was either skinny and scrawny or short and stout, Blake Harrington was almost six feet tall, broad shouldered, had a six pack, and not a single pimple. You’d think someone like that would be a snob, and while he was conceded, he was also sweet. Without speaking more than five sentences to me, he invited me to his house. We ate cookies and we bonded over our embarrassing mothers.

After that day, we spent every summer together, going to the beach, taking walks down by the creek, and talking for hours about nothing important. The time spent apart during the year never mattered. We would pick up like I never left when we got back together.

Since the moment I met him, I’d always fostered a secret hope that Blake would like me. But in all those years, even when he’d been flirty with me, he’d never made a move. I knew what the meant. I was good enough to be his best friend, but nothing else.

Then last summer, the final day I was there, when Blake took me to the Alligator Farm, everything changed. He held my hand as we walked around the park and treated me like his girlfriend. I was so ecstatic that I couldn’t form a coherent thought. When Mom arrived to pick me up and take me back to Miami, Blake pulled me behind an oak tree and kissed me.

The bark of the tree bit into my back as Blake pressed me against it. His mouth was quick and sure, while I didn’t know what to do with my tongue or hands, but it didn’t seem to matter to him. My pulse thumped as his fingers held my head in place as he deepened the kiss. I was too stunned to say anything after he released me. Like an idiot, I stumbled away from him, got into the car without saying anything, and Mom drove away. I turned around and watched him as we sped out of the parking lot. Blake didn’t smile, he didn’t wave. He stood there, his face emotionless, staring after me until I could no longer see him.

I didn’t hear from him that year or this summer when I didn’t show up in June. Was such an awful kisser that he changed his mind about me? For whatever reason, he blew me off, and that wasn’t okay with me. We’d been best friends for years, and to let one little, misguided kiss ruin that was stupid. And just like that—with a lot of resentment and a lot of chocolate cake— my eternal crush on Blake Harrington vanished.

I step in front of Blake’s white home. It was built during antebellum South and was so grand it requires a live in housekeeper to keep it up. After I knock on the front door, I do some deep breathing, bargaining with myself that if I get away from the house without punching Blake in his handsome face, my reward will be leftover donuts.

The second I spot him through the opened front door, I think about running because I don’t know if I can this interaction nonviolent. When Blake sees me, he smiles down at me, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the doorway.

“Cass Charon,” he says in a Southern twang.

In the past year, he has grown even more, to at least six-foot-two, which is almost a foot taller than me. I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. He must have just returned from surfing because his cheeks are a little pink and he smells like salt and sunshine. I avert my gaze and remind myself that I hate him.

Blake looks nothing like his mom, who is petit, blond, and blued eyed. I’ve never met, or even seen a picture of his father, Isaac Harrington, but I assume Blake takes after him. Blake’s dark eyes are a deep, warm brown, his skin olive colored, and he has wavy brown hair that’s long enough that the ends curl over his brow and around his ears.  

He pulls me in for a hug, and I go stiff in his embrace because I swear his lips brush over my hair. Before I can decide if he kissed my head or not, he sets me away from him, and says, “I’m surprised.” He runs his hand up and down my arms as he looks me over. “Pleasantly. You look good, Cass, prettier and prettier every time I see you.”

“You look fatter.” I jab his hard stomach, failing to prove my point. “And uglier.” He’s not offended, instead he chuckles at me because he knows the truth. All the girls fawning over him never let him forget.

            “I’ve missed you, Cass.”

“Well, I haven’t missed you. I’m only here to deliver this for your mom,” I say, giving him the makeup.

He tosses the lipstick and eye shadow onto the antique hallway table and turns back to me. He doesn’t let my stony response bother him. “I’ve been waiting for you all summer. Are you finally visiting your grandparents?”

“My mom moved us here last week.”

He grins again, flashing his perfect white teeth. “Get in here.” He pushes the screen door open wider. “We’ve got rum cake, and Mamma made some iced tea this morning before she left for the Garden Club. I don’t even think she spiked it yet.”

I start to follow him inside because it’s a habit, but then I get a flash of his face after he kissed me, his expression trapped between horror and disgust, like he couldn’t believe he’d degraded himself.

“No thanks. I have to go running before I go to the school for the orientation.”

“I always liked that about you.  I wouldn’t mind if you ran by here in those cute little running shorts.” My hands tighten into fists when winks at me.

“Stop it,” I say. “No one winks in real life.”  I turn to leave, but he places his hand on my waist. My breath catches in my throat.

“Don’t go,” he says. “I thought we could spend the day together, relive old times.”

            “I don’t want to relive anything with you.”

“Don’t say that. I can explain.”

“No thanks,” I say.

“Please.” He sticks out his lower lip, trying to change my mind by pouting.

            “Not everyone is impressed by you,” I say.

            He chuckles. “Yes, they are.”

            “Not me. Not ever.”

He drops his hands from me and draws back. The light in his eyes dims like I’ve hurt his pretty little feelings. He lets me walk away this time, and I don’t look back once when he calls after me. If he couldn’t bother to send me a simple text message, a phone call, or even a smoke signal in over a year, then I didn’t mean to him what he meant to me.

I do a lot of cursing as I stomp through the woods to Black Creek Drive. I’ve called Blake everything vile thing I can think of by the time I reached Brittany’s house. I ring the doorbell and wait. A woman in her early forties answers the door. Brittany’s step-mom is plump and pleasant. Her red hair is half curled, and half hanging around her shoulders like I caught her mid-hairdo.

“May I help you?” she asks.

“I’m Cass Charon.” I hesitate, not sure if I should tell her who my mother is because she’ll instantly assume I see dead people, too. “I’m Judy’s daughter.”

She smiles a little too big and embraces me. “Oh, Cass! You’re all grown up. I haven’t seen you since your grandfather’s heart attack. How’s he doing?”

“Pretty well, considering.”

“That’s great news. What are you doing here?”

“We live in Ravines now.”

“You’ll be in Brittany’s class. She’ll be so excited!” she exclaims, like Brittany will be my best friend. “Come in. Come in. Brittany has been at a friend’s beach house for the last few days, but she’s coming home this morning.” I follow Mrs. Moore into the house and sit on the couch. The whole room is decorated in flowers, roses on the wall paper, paintings of sunflowers, drapes with daisies. Like my mother, Mrs. Moore has found a theme in her home decor and has run with it. “You’ll love Ravines High. Have you met any classmates?”

“I know Blake Harrington.”

“Oh.” She giggles and fans herself like she’s talking about a famous actor instead of the boy next door. “Such a nice boy. So charming. So handsome,” she says with her hand over her heart.

What is it with everyone? Is every female in Ravines secretly in love with Blake? Sure he’s good looking, but there’s so much more to life than that.

Mrs. Moore continues, “I knew Blake’s father, too. We went to high school together. Isaac Harrington was a sight to see.” She gets a dreamy look, similar to the one she had when she was talking about Blake a few moments ago. “Blake and Brittany are quite the item. They’ve been dating for almost a year and a half.”

Ah. Things make a little more sense now. I spent the entire summer with Blake and he didn’t once mentioned Brittany. No wonder he never called me after we kissed. It might have pissed off his girlfriend.

“Did I hear the doorbell, Emmy?” a thin, dark haired, balding man asks. He dressed like most men his age, tan pants, a Polo shirt, and loafers.

“Honey, you remember Cass Charon, Judy’s daughter. She’s come to see Brittany.”

“Oh, how nice,” Mr. Moore says. “She sent me a text last night saying she’d be home around ten.” He checks his watch. “She’ll be here any minute. Can we get you something to drink while you wait for her?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine. I don’t need to see Brittany. I’ll just leave this with you.” I hold up the purse. I don’t need to meet the girl who Blake really likes.

“What’s that?” Mr. Moore asks.

“Brittany’s purse.” I place the pink bag on the coffee table. “I found it in the woods.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” Mrs. Moore said. “Did you find her wallet inside?”

“No.”  

“Then why do you think it’s hers?” Mr. Moore asks.

I pull out the gold necklace and hand it to him. “Because of this.”

He studies it for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t recognize this either. The necklace and purse could belong to anyone named Brittany,” he says.

“But I found it in a drainage ditch, just a few houses down from here.”

“Black Creek floods all the time, and every time it all kinds of things get redeposited.”

“Sorry to bother you, then,” I say.

“Don’t be sorry,” Mrs. Moore says, laying her hand on my shoulder. “It was a kind gesture, trying to return something lost.”  

“Well, nice to meet you,” I say as I turn toward the exit, wanting to leave. I don’t make it out of the house, thought. A large framed photo over the fireplace catches my attention as I inch toward the door. I suck in a shocked breath when I realize that I’m looking at the girl from my dreams. And the ghost I saw on the woods on the way over here. I look from the picture and then back to Mr. and Mrs. Moore.

“Crap,” I say, not meaning to speak out loud.

“What is it?” Mr. Moore asks.

“I’m sorry to be the one who tells you this, but Brittany isn’t coming home. She’s dead,” I say.