Stephanie bops up and bumps her hip to Opal’s as she scoops up Lucky.
“I’ve already tried to play that game with her.” Steph looks my way. “Mine was two words—bare-chested Santas. Don’t feel bad, Opal. I didn’t get far either.”
Opal grimaces at my sister. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m not coming in clear.” She drones each word out like only someone in her former tax bracket can. “I’m simply stating they’re on the agenda.”
“Wigs? As in hair pieces?” My brows hike a notch. “Are you talking for personal use, or is this an addendum you’d like to see tacked onto the new uniforms down at the café? Because I know from past experience, I look like a street walker with a cheap carpet on my head.”
“Oh, these won’t be cheap,” she points out. “And they most certainly won’t be for you. I’m thinking of expanding my accouterments with the hairy darlings. I’ve always been experimental with fashion.”
Stephanie nods. “I can relate. Before I came up north, I was experimenting a lot with fashion myself—specifically a red leather dress. I loved it because it hugged my every curve. And I hated it because I needed to bathe in oil to get it off me.”
I shrug. “But I bet your skin was nice and soft after that.”
“More like bruised and welted from knocking myself into walls while trying to pull the dang thing off. Once I became so entrapped, I dropped to the floor in a heap and fell asleep. My boyfriend found me and nearly called the cops because he thought I had been tied up and robbed.”
Nearly being the operative word. I happen to know the ex which she speaks of was a second generation mobster. And as second gen, you’re pretty much indoctrinated into the world as much as you have been into the mob. So I can see the urge to call the police. But every good mobster knows that no matter how bad it gets, you don’t call the cops for anything. You take care of it yourself, no matter how bloody or messy that may be. There was a very real reason we had an ample supply of cleaning solutions in our garage at any given time.
Opal sniffs. “Regardless, I have an entire slew coming in next week. A sort of early holiday gift to myself. Oh, and before I forget, the other night I had a dream I was a psychic just like the two of you.”
I suck in a hard breath.
Stephanie openly growls at her. “There are a lot of things you can call us, but the P word isn’t one of them.”
“She’s right,” I whisper. “Everyone and their spiritual mother knows that psychics are a no-go with the Big Guy. He’s adamant about staying away from them. They’re wicked, demonic, evil, and they are highly frowned upon in most religious circles—ours being one of them.”
Steph nods. “We like to think of our little voyeuristic journey into the future as a gift from the Almighty—gifted by the Almighty, with a divine purpose behind it.”
My shoulders bounce. “Either that or he was heavily distracted when creating the transmundane people. Nevertheless, if you go around telling people you got a word from God, they’ll see to it that you’re locked up in the looney bin.”
Opal flicks her wrist our way. “Pish posh. Wait a minute? That dream wouldn’t qualify me to be one of you, now would it? Maybe what you have is a catching condition?”
Steph wrinkles her nose. “Dreams don’t count. Dreams are weird. The other night I dreamed I found Pixie in the dishwasher.”
“Was it on?” I ask.
“No, why?”
“Because that’s how I’d know if you were a psycho.”
Opal chortles. “Don’t worry, Lola, I like you too much to care.” She takes off just as a pink spray of stars materializes near the supernatural section of the library, and I haul my sister over with me.
“Hazel,” I whisper as I give a little wave.
Her long auburn hair swirls and curls as effectively as if she was underwater. Her glowing eyes appear luminescent green at this moment, and it’s a positively stunning look on her.
Stephanie stomps her foot, and Lucky gives a little yowl in her arms.
“Hear that?” Steph leans my way. “Lucky and I both want in on some ghostly action. It’s no fair Regina dropped a pumpkin over your head, and now you can see through to the other side. Quick—bonk me over the head with a dictionary. Maybe that way I can see her, too.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Hazel giggles. “That may not be necessary. I scoured the area until I finally came upon a few friendly ghosts at a B&B down in a small town called Honey Hollow. They told me everything I’ve ever wanted to know about ghosts and people who share your ability, Bowie.”
I suck in a quick breath as I look to Steph. “Hazel says she’s learned something about the transmundane, and she’s found more ghosts!”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.” Stephanie swats me with Lucky’s tail. “Spill the supernatural details.”
Hazel nods. “Okay, Bowie. I’m not sure if this will work, or how well, but the ghosts told me that there’s a woman in Honey Hollow by the name of Lottie Lemon. Her transmundane gift is referred to as supersensual, which means she can see the dead. They seem to think when you got hit, it must have unlocked another element to this strange ability you have. And, depending on how strong your abilities are, there’s a chance your sister might be able to hear me—or even see me if she holds your hand. Apparently, this woman, Lottie, acts as a conduit with just about anybody. But, seeing that Stephanie is transmundane, too, it might have more of an effect.
“Hold my hand,” I say to my sister, and she quickly threads her fingers with mine. Before I can tell Hazel to go ahead and say something, Steph’s whole face lights up with fright before she quickly morphs into something of wonder as
