Lifting her chin, Ms. Troges releases a sigh. “It isn’t so much weird as it is specific. To a certain point, all witches with medium abilities would understand the concept that ghosts exist on a different plane than the living. But your phraseology was very unique to a, or rather, to two specialized groups of mediums. One of these is what we generally call Ghost Guides. Like your new friend Theo, they aid ghosts in discovering their unfinished business.”
I sit up a little straighter. “So maybe I was involved with someone like them before I died, well, and before I lost my gift. Still, that could be good.” Very good actually. With the many possibilities of who I could have been in my life, this was definitely a positive one. Then again, Ms. Troges did say there was another group that also would have used this phrase, one which might not be quite so positive. My shoulders slump a little. “What, uh, what was the other group?”
Ms. Troges drops her gaze, then looks back up at me. “They are less than friendly, unfortunately.”
I swallow, but it gets stuck and I have to cough a little before I speak again. “Who, uh, who are they?”
Lips rolled together, Ms. Troges stares at me for way too long. So long my skin itches. Or, my not skin. I try not to wriggle, but find myself tucking my hair behind an ear, recrossing my legs, and overall wishing I had some place to hide. Instead, I push.
“I’d rather the truth than a comforting lie.”
Finally, Ms. Troges blinks and shakes her head. “The other group that uses this phrase, Ms. Martin, are the Xers.”
Chapter Eleven
That conversation does absolutely nothing to relieve my ever-growing anxiety. It hangs out behind me like a stubborn sibling intent on driving one to the very last inch of their patience. I can barely get control of my thoughts, especially at night. When I do actually fall asleep, my dreams are full of possibilities, both positive and negative. I see myself burning bones in some, while in others I throw myself into a grave to protect a ghost.
Every night for the next few weeks, I wake with a start right before I hit the flames, holding back screams, neck aching. Thankfully, Haya is an extremely deep sleeper and I never wake her up. These nightmares stick with me so strongly, I have to stay up reading long after they’ve ended.
At least our room is filled with books. This is what those closets are actually for since we don’t need storage for clothes. Yasmin’s elation over this discovery was contagious. I doubt I’ll be reading the complete works of Shakespeare or the unabridged version of Les Mis along with her, but there are some awesome science fiction pieces I’m totally down for.
Though I have a few more life flashes, each one is so minor they tell me almost nothing. Moments from school talent shows — apparently, I had mad drumming skills — cooking fried chicken with brown gravy — we were semi-southern after all — and day trips to look at bluebonnets. All great pieces of my personality and mundane family activities, but nothing that unravels the greater mystery of my life or how I died.
To keep the gray of depression at bay, I ask Mr. Qureshi about finding a drum of some kind. He digs up a djembe — a small goblet-shaped drum played with bare hands — that I promise not to use at ridiculous hours of the night. Apart from the rhythm calming my nerves, it also really helps to hit something in a non-destructive way.
At the very least, Rafe and I master the first unit of Corporeal Contact and start combat training, an absolute necessity before attempting to complete unfinished business.
Thank the powers that be for small favors. Any amount of progress is a welcome change. Plus, now I’ll have an excuse to hit something destructively.
I’m yawning as Rafe and I walk together toward the combat building, surrounded by falling snow we can’t fully feel. It coasts through our skin unless we concentrate and sends chills deep into our bodies that hint at yet another memory I can’t quite grab on to.
“It kind of feels like brain freeze,” Rafe says with a grin.
“Or a full body freeze?” I cock my head to the side and hold out a hand to catch a flurry in my palm.
Rafe laughs. It’s the all-consuming type, where he stops and leans back, one hand on his chest. “I’ll allow it.” He nudges me with a shoulder. “Any progress with Haya on finding out what happened to her ex-roommate?”
I kick the snow with a heel. “Not really. She did tell me that Erin was a psych from New York and that she loved pancakes, but that obviously doesn’t tell me much about what happened to her. I’m treading lightly at the moment. Figure if I push too hard, she’ll clam up. What about you?”
Rafe pulls the door to combat open for me. “No new info from Quinn, but he’s not really the talkative type. It’s hard enough getting him to talk about himself. Though Yasmin does seem to get a little more out of him. Maybe we can make that her mission. I’ve been nudging Kaz a little though.” He drops his voice as we find some free space at the back of the mats. “Apparently, whatever happened to Erin is why Landon’s such a... pleasant person to hang out with. It kind of sounded like they were dating.”
“Weird thought considering we’re dead. Though I guess they do call it the after LIFE, right?” I elbow Rafe’s ribs as if my joke is actually funny and not totally stupid.
The idea of dead people dating shouldn’t actually sound that dumb, considering I’m a witch medium, but it is
