Chapter 3

I've been applying to all kinds of jobs in the Clay County School district. Hopefully something will pan out. I want to live in Clay again, preferably OP, Fleming, or Middleburg, so finding at job at a school in Clay would be perfect. But all that job applying and resume writing has made me tired. I'm supposed to be working on my other book with my editor, but my brain hurts. I'm tired and I don't wanna work hard. I want someone to give me $50,000 and publish my book without even reading it.

I did have a great time yesterday discussing the plot to the entire series with my favorite cousin, Emily, who has read everything. It was wonderful to have her insights and opinion and it feels good to have someone else know how it will all end. If I die, Emily will have to finish the series for me. My friend Nat also got me excited about the rewrites. She's my muse and gives me wonderful advice and cheers me on and on and one. I will be starting work on The South Star again, but for today, I'm doing more rewrites of the necromancer book. Please pardon the mistakes. Wheeeeeeee!!!!!!

Here's a picture of a pathway somewhere in the Ravines neighborhood in Middleburg. It's where this book is set.

Chapter 3 

            “Brittany isn’t dead,” Mr. Moore says. “I told you that she texted me last night.”

            “But have you talked to her today?”

“You need to leave,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders and guiding me toward the door. “This isn’t funny.”

            I dig my heels in. “Do you think this is fun for me? I’m telling the truth,” I say. “I saw your daughter’s ghost in the woods. I dreamed about her. She was bleeding to death and chained up somewhere. I saw the Reaper take her. She’s dead. You need to call the police.”

“That’s a good idea,” he responds. “Emmy, get the phone. I think Sheriff Michaels would like to know that Judy Charon’s daughter is harassing us.”

“Stop,” I say, placing my hand on the front door, keeping him from opening it. “I’m not lying. You know what I am.”

“Yes. Crazy,” Mr. Moore says.

I clench my teeth so I don’t say something rude back. I ignore the way he and Mrs. Moore glare at me. They aren’t the first nor will they be the last people to think I’m a nut job.

“I can help you,” I say.

“You can’t even help yourself,” he says. He wrestles the door open and shoves me out onto the front porch.

I am such an idiot. This is why I don’t get involved in the ghost crap. Nothing good ever comes from it. If there is some way to rip the necromancer out of me—no matter what it costs—I would do it. Seeing death everywhere is no way to live.

I stop at home, planning to change into my exercise clothes and tennis shoes to go running, but instead I sit at the kitchen table and eat all the leftover donuts. As I chow down, I notice a gray leather book next to Mom’s Grimoire of the Dead. When I see that this one is blank, I realize I’ve I found my birthday present. I flip to the back of my empty Grimoire, running my fingers over the pages, and as I do, glowing blue words start to form.

            I read along. “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.”

I slam the Book shut and throw it back onto the table. I feel like barfing, but I’m not sure if it’s because I ate too many donuts or because of what I read about the Marked girl loving a Reaper. I saw the Reaper in my dream this morning. Well, I didn’t really see him. I close my eyes and try to imagine what he looks like. All I can think of is the drawings of the black-skinned and horned demons who torture the unlucky residents of the Purgatory.

I close my eyes, and it’s almost like I smell the burnt skin of the damned. For a moment, I think Mom must have left some bayberry tea burning on the stove, but the room goes hot, too, like I’m standing in a lake of fire and brimstone. Then I get a whiff of tobacco, but not from my Mom’s secret stash. It’s more like the musty, hand-rolled cigarettes I once found in my Granddaddy’s desk drawer.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I hear the buzzing sound the dead give off when they are near. It’s like white noise, undetectable to anyone but deafening to a necromancer. I stand up fast and spinning around, knocking my chair to the floor in the process.

The guy who was with Brittany in the woods stands in the middle of the lavender colored linoleum floor.

“You again,” I say.

His lips curl up into a smile. “They are coming, Cassandra. We warned. Be wary for the fight will kill you.”

Ghosts have threatened me with death my entire life. I’ve never believed them before, but there was something so finite about his tone that frightens me. My throat is dry, so I swallow before I speak. “Who’s coming?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“The dead.”

I know what he means, but I ignore the truth. It has to do with what I just read about the Marked girl and the end of the world. “You’re not allowed in my house,” I say. “I banish you.”

He chuckles, a low grated noise that sounds a little like the gnashing of teeth heard in Purgatory. “You are the strongest Necromancer of your time, but you are not strong enough to challenge me.”

“I’m not afraid of you. Whatever it is that you are, I will figure out a way to kill you.”

“You cannot kill me. No living thing can.” He grins to himself. “But you will be dead so, so maybe you will have a chance then.”

“What are you?” I ask. I’ve asked him the same question before, and I don’t expect an answer, but my curiosity wins out over reason.

He steps up to me, only inches away. I want to draw away from him, but I can’t move. It’s like he’s used some sort of power to paralyses me. “Soon you will know more.” He doesn’t raise his hand, but it feels like his fingers brush down my cheekbone. “You and I will be quite . . . intimate.”

“Gross,” I respond. My nose wrinkles up. Sure, if you can overlook all his scars, his Nazi ties, pale skin, and the fact that he’s dead, the guy is pretty hot. I don’t even like talking to ghosts, so I want nothing romantic to ever go on between us.

He sneers down at me, like he knows I’m wrong. “You will not think that for long.”

Then he vanishes and I’m alone in our purple, eggplant-decorated kitchen. I let out an unsteady breath. The dead guy’s unexpected appearance shook me up more than I expected. I sink back into the kitchen chair and lay my head on the cool wooden surface of the table.

I glance at the grey book on the table, the one where I read the invisible inscription. I’m so screwed. My Marking ceremony is tonight. This all has to be connected

The donuts I ate lump together into a big, solid mass of fat and sugar churning in my belly. I rush to the sink and throw up everything I’ve eaten today. I run hot water and turn on the garbage disposal until it’s all washed away.

Before I can think about the Marking ceremony and my possible role in the end of the world, I go in search for Mom, and find her waiting for me on the front porch that is covered with overgrown pots of irises and violets. She doesn’t turn around, but I still see it as she flicks her cigarette into the purple azalea bushes.

Mom sprays some perfume, pops a stick of gum into her mouth, and asks, “Ready to go?”

“Yep.” I follow her to her purple Cadillac. “How was it to see Blake again? Did he kiss you?” She raises her penciled eyebrows at me.

“Are you going to take me to school or what?”

Mom rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t be such a teenager.” We both get into the car, or as I like to call it, the Purple Pimpmoblie, and she cranks the engine. Mom won the car five years ago for reaching fifty thousand makeup items sold. The whole back window of the car is a giant advertisement for Purple Lady Cosmetic Company, with Mom’s full name and phone number.

I slide on my big sunglasses and slouch down in the front seat, hoping no one will ever put together that I’m Judy’s daughter. It’s pointless, though. Everyone knows who my mother is, and everyone knows about our side business that has nothing to do with blush.

“Do you have your ghost beads?” Mom asks.

“Why does it matter?” I ask. “We’re going to Ravines High, not a haunted house.”

Mom glances back at our house. “You can never be too careful she says. Ghost are everywhere and not all of them are nice.”

For a split second I wonder if she knows about the ghost who got in. I should tell her about everything, the hot Nazi, the dreams about Brittany, seeing her in the woods, and what I saw in my new Grimoire of the Dead, but I don’t. I’m horrible at being normal, but perfect at denial. If I don’t talk about it, it’s not happening.

“I never take it off my ghost beads,” I say, snapping at her. I hold up my wrist, showing her the brown beaded bracelet that is supposed to protect against the bad spirits, but doesn’t do much good since I seem to be being haunting by something evil.

“You’re even moodier than usual. I’ll take that as evidence that Blake didn’t kiss you after all.”

“I don’t want to talk about Blake.”

“You don’t want to talk about anything anymore,” Mom says. She has her eyes on the road now, and refuses to look at me during the ten minute drive to the school. She’s right, I used to tell her everything, but there came a point when I started blaming Mom for my abilities, and I started to take my hatred of Necromancy out on her.

I want give her a snide comment back, but instead look out the windshield and ignore her. Mom drops me off at school, promising to be back within an hour. I slam the car door shut and follow the welcome new student signs to the small gym and take a seat in the empty back row.  A few students mill around the refreshment table.  I should introduce myself, but can’t find the energy for small talk. And it doesn’t matter if I make new friends. Once they find out what I am, they’ll never talk to me again.

When the heat outside becomes too much to bear, I return to the gym lobby. A trophy case sits against one wall. I lean closer to read the inscription of one of the trophies. “Brittany Moore, Cheerleader of the year.”

I press my hand to the glass and close my eyes, and I’m transported somewhere else. I’m the girl from the dream again.

 

He sits next to me, darkness over his face, concealing his identity. Whoever he is, I know he’s not the dead guy I just saw in my kitchen. He’s someone else. Still someone familiar, but someone I can’t name.

We are in the car, stopped at a lone traffic light. I reach for the door handle, but his hand clasps over mine, pulling me close. Everything started out so much different. We had planned on taking a quick little vacation together before school started. He said he had rented a room at a little bed and breakfast in St. Augustine, but something changed. He changed.

            “I can’t do this. This is wrong,” I hear myself say. The radio plays in the background as the engine struggles to gain speed. The interior of the car is lit only by the dashboard.

            “No. This is what I’ve had planned since the beginning,” he says. 

I struggle not to yank away from his grip. Bile rises in the throat.

“You love me, don’t you?” he asks.

“You know I do.” The words are backed by the sweetest smile I can manage, but all I want to do is smack him.

“Then we’re getting married. I’d rather die than lose you. I know you wouldn’t want to live without me either. Would you?”

             I shake my head, knowing it’s what he wants. For some reason his talk of death seems like an omen, and I have the overwhelming urge to jump out of the moving car.

             “I think we should stop for the night,” I say. “It’s late.”

 

            The headlights flash on the freeway sign, I-95 South. We pass the exit for Green Cove Springs, and I realize, somewhere along the way he turned around. We’re not headed to Daytona like he promised, but back Ravines, just five miles away.

            “Where are we going?” I ask in a shaky voice.

            “To a little place I had in case you changed your mind.”

            “I didn’t change my mind. I told you I’d marry you.”

            “You’re lying to me.”

            The false happiness leaves me. I can’t even pretend anymore. “Take me home.

Now!” I shout.  His chuckle sends a chill through me.

            “But I am,” he say. “To your new home.”