CASSIDY
July 2008
ONE.
Concealed under layers of heavy blankets, I count in my head, breaths shallow. The cozy world of dreams faded hours ago—just like the sun. Casting shadows across my room, inviting all sorts of darkness inside.
Two.
Shivers rock my shoulders despite the summer heat. As soon as my parents fell asleep, I cranked my room heater to eighty, but my toes are still numb from the persistent cold in the room. I curl them under myself as best as I can.
Three.
Sucking in freezing air, I lift the edge of the blanket cave.
They stand in the corner. Two young boys—twins—holding small hands. Blue dinosaur pajamas, blue lips, blue skin. Stiff as statues. Their black eye sockets stare empty except for a silver pinprick in the center. Beady, unblinking.
Their edges shimmer silver. The frightening glow of the dead.
I yank the blanket back down and squeeze my eyes shut. Hug Mr. Teddy tight. His fluff muffles the throb of my heart. The dead boys can't be much younger than eight-year-old me. Maybe seven. Maybe littler.
Please, they whisper, voices striking together in near-sobs in my head. We're so cold.
My teeth clatter. And the soft spots behind my ears ache as if bruised—my body's knowing response when ghosts are near.
"I'm cold. Go away," I hiss, volume low. Can't risk Mom hearing me. Three nights in a row, the twin boys have visited the corner of my room. And three nights in a row, Mom's yelled at me to shut up. Tonight, of all nights, I can't make a sound. Dad's Big Meeting is tomorrow. The one with the Big Boss. The house has to stay silent. Ghostless. No whining from little Cassidy.
I peek again. My hands shake. Mr. Teddy's stitches creak.
Please, the twins beg, mouths still. Voices echoing inside me. Only you can help us.
They shift forward. Then in a blink, they're at the end of my bed. I gasp. Moonlight glints across their shoulders, cutting through their translucent figures with light, but they're still here. Still blue. Still pulsing with that silver shimmer.
I can't let them wake Mom and Dad. Slowly, I press a stiff finger to my lips and try to give them a stern stare. Just like Mom does with me. The boys glance at each other, and I catch the lace of blue ice across their tiny necks. Something silent passes between their mirrored sockets.
Then they look back at me.
Only once I'm hidden again do I breathe. I pet Mr. Teddy twice. Tell him it'll be all right.
I count again. One. Two… Three.
Then lift the blanket.
Gone.
A smile cracks my lips. Hope warms my chest. Mom won't call the head doctor again. Dad won't lose his job because of me.
I just had to tell the ghosts to shut up. Ha. I'll have to try that again next time. Back under the blankets, I hug Mr. Teddy close and whisper, "No more pills," then stroke his head. "No more bad dreams."
Tiny crackles break the quiet.
I freeze. Scratching at the window? The cat clawing the carpet? I hold my breath. The sound creeps closer, until it brushes the edge of my blanket cave.
I grip Mr. Teddy tight. One, two…
Blue-white frost glides under the blanket, over the sheets, rapidly spreading up Mr. Teddy's leg. I curl away, knees to chest, as icy lace skitters up my ankles, my arms. Through my hair. Freezes me in place.
Then—whoosh—every blanket whips off of me, flung to the ceiling.
Above, two pairs of black-socket stares find me.
The twins hover close. Their silver outlines shimmering. Mouths silent. Blue arms reaching.
Tiny, dead hands muffling my scream.
~*~*~*~
KANE
October 2018
WES WAS SUPPOSED TO be here twenty minutes ago.
Six cups of heart-searing coffee in, Kane Wisdom's skin itches with untapped energy. He engages each sense, scattering them across the autumn-painted suburban street—catching every falling leaf, smelling each carved pumpkin, leaning into the dying breath of summer. It's a practiced meditation, a paranoid tic to remain grounded in his own body. Shaking under caffeine sweats, he sucks at the rim of his disposable cup for more of the bitter drug to stay focused.
A voice beetles at the back of his mind, a prodding female tease. There're better drugs for tha'. Her Scottish lilt lends a melody to her words, an enticing persuasion.
Crushing the empty cup, Kane lets out a hissing, "Shut it," before tossing the cardboard into the gutter. He scratches at his unkempt black hair, searching the sky for shapes, patterns, a distraction. Pointedly ignoring the voice in his head. He knows there are other methods. He's tried a few. But coffee is the only one his brother will tolerate.
We should go in, the voice says.
"Wes said to wait," Kane replies. Out loud. Feeling stupid. He shouldn't respond to the voice in his head.
Just go in an' guard it afore ye're arrested for loitering.
"I'm not loitering."
Ye're scaring all th' poor old ladies.
Up the walkway, a trio of older women approach—not headed for him, but for the house behind. A tall, leaning giant. Oldest house on the block, for sure. Paint peeling, shutters askew. Wrap-around porch railing missing a dozen spindles. In the front window, an unplugged neon sign leans against the glass reading: Psychic Within.
In the lawn, another sign contradicts the first in big, red-printed letters: Estate Sale.
The women cross over the dandelion infested lawn to avoid Kane, casting him scowls. The tallest of the three, a bulldog of a woman, frowns the deepest. Her small eyes assess him—disapproving—before she clutches her purse and follows her friends inside.
Kane scoffs. "What's her deal?"
No' many people like the homeless, talking-to-no-one look, hero.
Kane glances down: thrifted bomber jacket, holey jeans, mystery stains—could be coffee, or blood. Probably both. Rubbing his jaw, he realizes he hasn't shaved in days.
Ye're a mess, the voice teases with a bursting laugh.
"Shut up, Ade."
Ye can't jus' ignore me forever—
"I said. Shut. The fuck. Up."
Adrienne's smoky presence swirls in the back of his head, giggling.
Pushing up his sleeves, Kane examines the scars along his forearms, mirrored curves ending in tight curls at his wrists. Rounded runes that almost seem like tattoos. Intentional. Designed. Marking him since birth as the freak of nature that he is. A Golden, Lorelei says. Cursed, Kane contradicts every time. Sure, the inhuman strength and speedy healing keep medical bills low but those "gifts" also mark him as a target. For any untethered soul in need of a strong, human vessel.
Like a snarky, fire-wielding Scot with shoddy morals on others' mortality.
The scars are hot to the touch, but not glowing—Adrienne's influence still small. Still unable to activate his Golden abilities and use them as her own. He has to ignore her. Keep his cool. Keep control of his body.
Adrienne sniffs, obviously offended.
Good.
Finally, Westley arrives, third-hand pickup rumbling to a stop across the street. He jumps out, adjusts his rectangle glasses, then grabs a large blue thermos from the interior. Eyes only on the house, he jogs over, handing Kane the cup. "Crowded?"
"I don't know," Kane says, popping the top off and gulping the boiling liquid. His veins seize, jitters catching along his jaw.
Westley adjusts his sleeve. "Let me go in first." He starts for the door.
Kane notices the bulge in his brother's sleeve and shoots his hand out to stop him by the shoulder. Added caffeine floods his marks. Magic crackles. His Golden strength surges, fingers squeezing tight.
Westley shocks back, grimacing in pain. Kane immediately lets go. "Fuck." He shakes the burst of strength off, fingertips tingling with excess power.
Adrienne stirs beneath his Golden current—hungry to twist it into something hotter, hers. But Kane restrains every movement and points to his brother's arm.
"I said no toys."
Westley rolls his shoulder back. "I can help."
"Dude, there's no reason to when I can—"
"I have to be able to do this on my own. You can't even touch it. I'm going in."
Westley doesn't wait for a reply. He pointedly skirts around his brother's reach and heads inside.
Adrienne hums. He has a point. Let 'im do the collecting.
Kane's jaw twitches. "He's going the wrong way."
She clicks a nonexistent tongue. Ergh, fine. Jus' don't touch anythin'. Psychics are jus' witches with cash flow. Who knows how many vessels are lyin' around? I don't need a roommate in here.
He scoffs. "I don't need your permission."
Certainly waited for ma permission.
"I'm going in because I want to go in, all right?"
Keep yer crazy in check, hero.
Mouth clamped shut, Kane follows his brother inside the creaking house, fuming. It's entirely unfair that Adrienne can argue with him all she likes while he looks like a lunatic for responding.
She giggles, tickling the scarred skin down his forearms. Tasting the echo of his power.
Kane steps inside and idles in the dry, smoke-scented entryway, scanning brushstroke paintings while sipping more caffeine. It's a mundane place for a psychic. Cozy even, if not a bit rundown with age.
From here, he can feel the buzz of magic deeper in the house. The vessel. Must be. He could find it in under a minute, get this over with, but guilt pauses his feet. He's usually so careful about his unnatural strength, especially with Westley. Fatigue is getting the best of him. Sucking down more caffeine, Kane decides he'll give his brother a five-minute head start. Kid just wants to help after all.
The trio of older women from earlier rifle through the dead psychic's belongings in the adjoining sunroom. Mosaic lamps, dangling jewelry, intricately carved cabinets—all tagged with neon-green numbered stickers, tools of her trade or hell, maybe even family heirlooms reduced to products. The concept sticks in Kane's throat. Everything smells of dust, disuse, and death.
At least this assignment is straightforward, won't have to stay long. Usually, finding vessels to sell to witches or collectors takes luck. But today? Lorelei has requested a specific spirit board. Specific house. Specific time. Easy pickup and delivery. Their ticket to an extended stay at Lorelei's safe house up in the Rockies. Something stable as the nights sink into autumn frost.
Still think it's a bad idea, Adrienne sighs.
"Ade," Kane whispers under his breath. "It's a couple days off mission."
Ye really think yer brother's gunna let you leave him behind? With Lorelei of all people?
"He won't have a choice." He sucks in more coffee, heart thumping hard in his throat.
S'long as it gets us back on track.
"I know. All you care about."
All tha' matters, yes. You made the deal, Kane.
He swallows again, tongue bitter and thick. "I know."
He pushes through a curtain of beads into the psychic's reading room. The ghost of incense lingers, burning his sinuses, as he takes in the dark-red walls and hanging herbs in the bay window. In the center, a round table draped in a maroon pashmina glows in the afternoon sun. Crystal ball. Tarot decks. Stacks of black and white candles. Everything's for sale here, too.
Kane pushes his awareness out, scanning for magic, anything weighted with real value. But nothing hums, nothing snaps. No hidden energy pulses along his marked arms. Unusual. Witches are rarely this... restrained.
Modest magician, Adrienne hums down his neck.
"Or good at hiding it," Kane whispers, fingering a purple-shimmer tarot deck.
"Hiding what?"
Kane spins. The deck hits the carpet.
A woman stands in the doorway, hiding a laugh. By her black blazer and shiny name tag, she's probably the one running the sale. "Think the old witch hid some ancient magic or something?"
She's teasing. If she believed it, her eyes would hold more weight, her pink-painted lips wouldn't be smiling. Kane would know. As she is, pretty, friendly eyes capturing his stare, she's a welcome distraction from the voice in his head.
He plays along. "Well, witches never leave the real stuff out where any old muggle can stumble on it, of course."
"Of course." She bites her lip, kneeling to gather the cards.
Kane joins her.
"Apparently," she says, "she was the real deal."
He laughs. "You believe in this crap?"
"I've heard plenty today." She nods toward the hall. "Tragedy predictions. Midnight seances."
"Convincing actress then."
He meets her appraising gaze—soft green eyes—and reaches for a card she's holding, to brush at her fingers. A different, deep in the gut heat swirling through him. She doesn't flinch away.
A blush touches the woman's cheeks. "Mina."
"James," Kane lies. "How much for these?" he asks to keep the play going, stay in the fantasy of normal for just a moment longer. Distracted from the stress and pain and loss of the last year.
As soon as his focus lapses, Adrienne strikes. A lashing heat down his arms until a spark of flame ignites his fingers upon the card deck.
Mina and Kane both jump back from shock. She waves her hand, checking on her burned fingertip, while Kane retreats and hides his smoking hand behind his back.
Adrienne laughs. Head in the game, hero.
Mina's interest falters out, searching Kane for any explanation. When he offers none, she says, "Twenty," Clipped, all business. "I'll… be right back." She ducks out of the reading room.
He doesn't even bother trying to explain himself. Just tugs a crumpled twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and sets it on the table as apology.
Should know better, Adrienne trills. We're not getting off track with girls. Not again.
Kane pockets the deck and sucks down more coffee, more liquid control. Stupid. Can't happen again. That's how people get hurt, have gotten hurt. Fantasies of love connections and trusting intimacy are just that. Fantasies. He has to let them go. For good.
Is tha' yer brother?
Through the window, a girl with spiked black hair walks toward a red car up the street, flat cardboard box tucked under her arm. And right behind her jogs Westley, long hair frizzing, sleeve bulging, calling out to her.
"Shit," Kane hisses, and races out the beaded curtain.
Outside, Westley's already caught up to the spiky-haired teen. She's gripping her car door handle, nice and freaked out. "I paid for it, creep."
Kane grimaces but keeps quiet as he ducks down close to the back door of her car while she's preoccupied.
Westley motions with his hands, stray wire dangling from his cuff. "My aunt wanted me to take over her business. I'm trying to keep all her, uh, tools together."
The fumbling failure of a lie physically hurts Kane. Westley is not a front man. Never will be. But Kane focuses on the wave of energy coming from inside the car. The marks down his forearms tingle, detecting the magic within. He tries the handle. Locked.
"You can see the future?" the girl snaps.
"Exactly. And I can see…" Westley wiggles a few fingers. "You're an accommodating person."
Spiky-hair scoffs. Kane facepalms.
"Beat it, dude. My uncle's a cop. Want me to call him?" She's already dialing.
Westley freezes. No cops. Rule number one.
Kane immediately jogs away, signaling to retreat with a thumb over the shoulder. Deception failed. Time to regroup.
But on the dead psychic's porch, Ms. Bulldog grips an ornate lamp like a trophy in one hand and holds up her cell phone with the other, camera trained right on Kane.
His stomach drops.
Fuckin' phones, Adrienne mutters.
Spiky-hair speaks into her own device. "Tall, glasses, and a creepy hook-nose."
Westley balks, hand shooting straight to his face. The girl takes the chance to shove him out of the way and lock herself inside the car before he can stop her.
She stays on the line, eyeballing Westley as she glides down the street. Their ticket to the safe house rolling around the corner with her. Magic influence drains down Kane's arms until he feels nothing but empty defeat and the weight of the useless tarot deck in his jacket pocket.
So much for an easy pickup.
Both brothers race to their truck, Westley taking the passenger side. "She took a left."
Kane drives, glaring at the bulldog woman's camera still trained on them. He purposefully takes a right, making a show of not following the girl while still being recorded. The winding cul-de-sacs wrap them around the edge of the neighborhood, but in no time, he finds the red car again, keeping distance.
"Didn't detect a thing," Westley grumbles, tugging wires out from his sleeve. "A frequency error?" He mutters in his nerd language of ohms and runes, tinkering with a central metal unit carved up with several slanting symbols.
Kane doesn't understand any of the tech, but knows the runes are weak. There's barely a Golden mark shiver coming off the thing. He shouldn't have let Westley waste time with his toys. He shouldn't have let himself get caught up in green-eyed fantasies.
He should know better. He does know better.
What the fuck is wrong with him today?
Westley gives up on his device, shoving the wires into a duffel bag at his feet. Then pulls out a silver pistol.
Kane slaps the weapon down, frustration bursting. "Seriously?"
"Just checking the runes," Westley assures. He hides the gun back in the bag. "Don't know what might happen now. We'll have to ditch the car for sure."
Kane huffs. "Told you not to bring those."
"They'll work. Trust me."
"Like your EMF sleeve?"
"An anomaly."
"Right." Kane watches the red car looping onto a main road. "Next time, I handle the flirting, 'kay?"
"I can handle—"
"No, you can't Wes. You didn't handle anything!"
"It's a minor setback—"
"We NEED that board."
Westley huffs, glaring out his side window without fighting back.
Adrienne warms down the back of Kane's neck. Could let me out. Get the vessel back nice and quick.
Grip tight on the wheel, Kane shakes his head. Anger splitting his focus too much. They pass a row of jack-o'-lanterns in someone's front yard, each face more gruesome and monstrous. Curling horns. Jagged teeth. Adrienne hums at the sight. Remember Atlanta? I got the job done then, didn't I?
Kane's teeth press hard together. Of course he remembers Atlanta. He'll never forget Atlanta. The burning walls. The screaming… That's why he needs to stay grounded, stay in his body. Stay in control.
I'm so cooped up in here, Kane. Please. Let me out. Let me help.
Her smoky influence pulses like twisting vines around his arms. Pushing to take over.
"No," he grunts.
Westley shifts in his seat, eyeing him.
Adrienne presses harder. It's Halloween. They'll just think its an elaborate costume. I won't hurt anyone this time. I promise.
Westley points to the side of the road. "Pull over."
Kane keeps eyes on the red car ahead, voice strained with effort. "Can't lose… the vessel."
Let me out. Smoke slips out from under his sleeves.
Westley shoves his arm. "Pull over!"
Adrienne's frustration finally breaks. Let me OUT!
Yellow flames burst across Kane's right sleeve. He rips the wheel to the right, kicks the brake pedal to the floor. Skin sizzling, Adrienne shrieking through his skull. Kane and Westley jolt forward against the dash. But the younger moves. Popping the top of the thermos, dumping the last of the coffee over the older's arm.
The flame hisses into smoke. Sleeve ragged, skin bloodied underneath. Kane and Westley lock eyes, both breathing heavy. But both alive, truck intact.
Car horns blare outside, passing vehicles swerving around.
Adrienne simmers inside Kane's chest, hissing in defiance. You can't hold me back forever, Kane. I'm not some bad dream.
Kane squeezes the wheel. "I know." Golden light flashes down his marks, metal bends. "Fuck…" He pulls back too late.
Westley swallows hard beside him. "I'll drive."
Kane nods. "Good idea."
Westley hurries out of his seat, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses. He's so tired. And young, Kane observes through the windshield. Barely seventeen. Burdened with his big brother's curse. Guilt burns down Kane's throat. They shouldn't be fighting like this. They shouldn't be out here searching for vessels to earn a bed at all, in fact. Shouldn't be leashed to an incorporeal being's demands. Westley should be living his school life, nose stuffed in books, fingers sliding over violin strings. Kane should be… who knows what. Doesn't matter. Because it would be better. No drugged-out fights. No violent nightmares. It should be like before. Before the pain. Before the death.
Before the deal.
Don' put the blame all on me, hero, Adrienne whispers down his back. Ye agreed to the terms.
Kane exits the truck but stops his brother before he takes over the driver's seat, apologies for the last year of their hellish life twisting on his lips.
Westley's brow lowers with concern, all earlier annoyance melted away. "What's wrong?" He bends to check the burns along Kane's arm.
The skin is already pink, reforming. Kane's Golden marks glow a dull orange as they mend him from the inside out. Keeping him strong, keeping him whole.
Primed and ready for Adrienne's mission.
"Uncanny," Westley breathes out, shaking his head. He tries a smile. Forced and false, but a truce nonetheless. "C'mon, don't wanna lose it." He takes Kane's seat and balks at the bent wheel.
Kane drops the apology and jogs around to the passenger side. He'll make things right. No more of these close calls with Adrienne's fits of fire. No more dragging him across the country with barely fifty dollars to their names. No more fantasies of a normal life he'll never touch.
Just need to get the vessel, get Wes to the safe house.
Then we find Mountain.
Kane nods to her, resigned to his fate, dropping into the seat with a huff. He glances at the empty thermos and frowns. "That was the last of it, huh?"
Westley exhales a laugh. "Your heart is going to burst one of these days."
Kane matches his brother's side-smile, pointedly ignoring Adrienne's swirling heat at the back of his head. "Eh, maybe it needs to."