How to Ditch Dead Guys (The Witch's Handbook Book 2) Page 4

  My bruises ache even worse than the night before. After choking down double the recommended dose of ibuprofen, I lounge around watching chick flicks. Even pointing the remote hurts. I’m going to move as little as possible today. No more running, that’s for sure.

  An eager pounding on my apartment door interrupts my plans to vegetate. Crap. Who could that be? Stifling a groan, I gimp over and crack open the door.

  “Hi, Emma.” Phoebe bounces in the hallway. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “What’s up?” I clutch a blanket around me. Go away. You’re too dang perky.

  “Tonight I’m hosting our monthly Wicca meeting. Why don’t you join us? It’s a wonderful, life-affirming experience and such a healthy lifestyle.”

  I consider my injuries. Wicca is a healthy lifestyle, you say? Healthy, my butt.

  “All I ask is an hour of your time.” Phoebe’s grin makes me feel like she’s selling me a used car. With purple flowers painted on it.

  I sigh. Where does she get all this energy?

  She points downstairs. “It’s conveniently located.”

  “So is my television.” I glance toward it longingly.

  “Please, Emma. Just give it a chance.”

  “Fine,” I grumble, to make her go away.

  “Great! See you soon.” She grins and scoots away too fast for me to change my mind.

  My last ibuprofen dose wanes as I join the eager spiritualists. Phoebe’s black dress matches her glossy hair. She lights a ring of candles on a low table. There are only three other girls in attendance, all a little too over the top with their joy at my presence. They must be eager to add more members to their meager monthly meetings. They make every attempt to include me in their discussions about witchcraft books they read, websites they visited, and spells they performed. I tune out their talk about love spells, but perk up when they discuss ways to decrease menstrual cramping.

  “Hey,” I interrupt. “Do any of those spells really work?”

  They all stare at me as if I have three heads, all of them unattractive. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

  “Does the incense bother you?” a pretty blonde asks.

  “Or do you have asthma?” questions a red head.

  Phoebe narrows her eyes. “Did you say you couldn’t breathe?”

  “What?” I shake my head, wincing at the sharp flash of pain in my neck. What are they talking about? “No. The candles are fine.”

  “Maybe we misheard you,” Phoebe offers.

  The others gawk for a moment, then turn back to their conversation. Even though she defended me, Phoebe’s gaze keeps flicking back in my direction.

  I glance at the clock, begging time to move faster. I never should have agreed to attend this stupid meeting. All these wanna-be witches don’t know what they’re talking about. Heck, I’m probably the only one here who has actually contacted the dead. Voices murmur in my head, getting louder, making it difficult to focus. I search for an escape, but am surrounded by eager wiccans and lit candles. Tufts of smoke curl off and sail in my direction. The spirits are coming for me, and I’ve no idea how to fight them.

  “What’s that noise?” a woman whispers in my ear. I turn to look, but no one’s there.

  Phoebe sets down her glass. “What did you say, Emma?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” I start to sweat. Did I bring a ghost with me to this meeting? I glance around, praying hard that a snake doesn’t pop its head out of Phoebe’s bowl of organic hors d’oeuvres.

  “Is somebody out there?” My heart begins to race.

  “Did I set the alarm?” I feel Eva’s panic, the fear rising in her throat.

  “Somebody’s in the bedroom!” I’m going to die, just like Eva did.

  The soda in my hand sloshes onto the floor.

  “What should I do? Where can I hide?”

  Phoebe’s apartment disappears and I’m back in Eva’s bathroom with nowhere to hide and no weapon for protection. I grab a can of hairspray and spin around to face him with my finger on the button, nailing the intruder in the eyes. He screams in anger; his arms flail to cover his face. I race past him out the door, but he grabs my shoulder, and slams me to the floor.

  “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t…” I gasp for air, choking, coughing.

  The vision clears.

  I’m back with the Wiccans.

  Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Phoebe and the others stand over me as a huge black moth hovers over my gaping mouth.

  I scramble to my feet. “Sorry, I think the incense is getting to me.” I flee the party, stumbling over collapsed cardboard boxes in an effort to escape.

  Somehow Phoebe reaches the door before I do. She thrusts a plastic bag filled with dried herbs in my hands. “It’s rosemary.” She arches a pierced eyebrow. “To encourage peaceful dreams.”

  “Thanks.” I grab the parcel before pushing past her. How does she know about my nightmares? I hurry upstairs to my apartment, breathing hard and rubbing my sore neck. The answering machine blinks as I sprint to the cupboard for more ibuprofen to calm the fire inside.

  My cell phone rings.

  “Leave me alone!” I growl before swallowing the pills without water. My throat constricts. I groan in pain then grab the phone. “What do you want?”

  “Hey, Emma. I’m calling to congratulate you.” I can almost see Walker smirk.

  “What for?”

  “I heard that the realtor sold Eva’s house to the couple.”

  “Good for her.” I rub my neck, wincing.

  “They really liked the view.” Walker chuckles. “You must’ve convinced them. Hey, maybe you’ve found a new profession. Your mom would like that.”

  “Not interested.” I grab the countertop with my jittery hands, sweat beading on my forehead. “What about the killer? Any luck finding him?” Because then maybe these visions would stop.

  “No. After murdering Eva last summer, the ‘Shadow’ disappeared along with his gang down in Chicago.”

  My hands tremor and my heart quivers. “What are you going to do about that?”

  “Don’t know… but at least I discovered what used to hang in that empty space on the wall in her bedroom.”

  “You did? What was it?” Maybe this will help me.

  “Her Brazilian relatives reported that a black obsidian mirror used to hang there.” He pauses. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Obsidian.” I recall my witchcraft research. “It’s a shiny, black stone that’s supposed to ward off evil spirits.”

  “I guess it didn’t work very well for Eva.” Walker sounds sad.

  “No. It didn’t.” I shiver, rubbing my arms with my hands. “I wish you could’ve found the killer.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not more help.” What a ridiculous thing to say. Guilt is my main emotion sometimes. That and fear.

  “Hey, at least you tried. I still owe you. How about dinner?”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, even though the only place I want to be is unconscious on my couch. That is, if the spirits will leave me alone.

  “How about my place tomorrow night? Seven o’clock sharp.”

  His place? That’s weird. “Can you cook?”

  “Don’t worry, oh Queen of the Noodle Casserole. I’m a gourmet chef.”

  “That’s funny.” I gaze at the ibuprofen bottle in my hand, wishing it were something stronger and more effective. “Then why are you always eating my food?”

  He hangs up, laughing.

  I turn down the hallway to the bathroom. Gritting my teeth, I push in the door. The cup spins on the counter, and a black moth flutters on the mirror.

  I turn right around, grab my keys, and flee the apartment.

  Ten minutes later, I pull into Claire’s driveway. Abby sits on a blanket in the backyard, holding her baby. She waves me over, but for a few minutes I can’t do anything but sit and breathe. I finger the fabric of my turtleneck, tensin
g when I come close to the bruises.

  I can do this. I can be normal around regular people. Regular as in non-dead, non-scary people, that is.

  Finally, I get out of the car, legs shaking only a touch. Nobody else would probably notice. I force myself to smile as I approach.

  “Hey there, Emma,” Abby calls out. “I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call first.” I enter the back garden. “Hope you don’t mind me barging in on you.”

  “Of course not. I’m glad to see you. “ Abby glances toward my car. “Where’s Sam-Jake hiding out these days? I haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

  “Um… he went home for the summer.”

  “That’s odd. Why’d he leave without saying good-bye? It’s kind of rude, actually.”

  I swallow. My befuddled mind can’t come up with a good lie, so I go with the first thing that flies out of my mouth. “He said his grandma was sick.”

  The screen door squeaks. Claire pauses on the top step with two glasses of lemonade in her hands, her face unreadable.

  “Really?” Abby glances up. “I thought his mom had cancer. At least that’s what Claire said.”

  “No. That’s Mi-“ I raise my hand to my mouth, realizing my mistake.

  “Abby, don’t you think-“ Claire speaks at the same time.

  Abby interrupts. “It’s too bad Sam’s whole family is sick. I should send him a card. Maybe two cards. Do you have his address?”

  Claire and I exchange glances.

  “Never mind.” Abby shakes her head. “I’m not stupid. I know when I’m being lied to. And if neither of you are willing to trust me, I’ll figure it out on my own.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you-“ Tears spring to my eyes. The last thing I want is to hurt Abby. She’s been hurt enough as it is.

  Abby levels me with a stare. “It sure feels that way.”

  “I already explained it to her.” Claire sets down the lemonade on a small metal table. “We’re not free to tell any more than we have already.”

  Abby glares at both of us in turn. “That’s not much of an explanation, if you ask me.”

  “But we made a promise,” I try to explain. Steve wouldn’t even like the fact that we’re having this conversation, but I can’t tell Abby that, either.

  Abby cocks her head to the side. “Because breaking promises is a big no-no, but lying to me repeatedly doesn’t bother either of you?”

  Claire catches my eye. Abby has a point. Maybe it’s time. I open my mouth, ready to forget Steve’s directions and tell Abby everything when I notice a young girl in a gingham dress, standing in the garden behind Abby.

  “Emma, what are you staring at?” Abby turns to look. “There’s nothing there. What is it? What’s wrong with you?”

  The young girl raises a finger to her lips. She speaks without moving her mouth. Her words echo in my head, Keep quiet or they’ll get hurt.

  I shiver, as if my blood has frozen within my veins.

  Claire grabs my arm. “Emma, you’re pale as a ghost. Are you okay?”

  Her touch burns. My throat closes, but not before I get out the name “Elsie.”

  “Who’s Elsie?” Abby asks as the sky darkens.

  My legs melt beneath me and I collapse.

  “She’s obviously not getting enough sleep.” Claire’s voice floats above me.

  “Are you sure that’s it?” Abby asks, her voice suspicious. “That was bizarre. What on earth did she see out there?”

  “She didn’t see anything.” Claire’s voice again, cutting through the darkness. “There was nothing there.”

  “I thought she was going to have a seizure. Shouldn’t we take her to the hospital?”

  I want to argue, to get up, and demand to be left alone. I don’t want to see any doctors. But I can’t move. Is this what dying feels like? Maybe it would be nice to be done, to rest.

  No, not that. I’m not finished.

  There’s more I can do.

  Except I’m so tired now. I’ll fight later.

  “No. Let her sleep here on the couch tonight.” Claire tucks a blanket around my shivering shoulders. “Poor dear. I’ll keep an eye on her, Abby. Don’t you worry.”

  he clock reads 6:40 when I wake up the next day. I stumble into Claire’s kitchen. She’s alone feeding Stevie.

  “Wow. I slept a long time.” I rub my face. “It’s already morning.”

  Claire frowns. “Emma, it’s already evening. Around noon, Abby tried to convince me to call 9-1-1 before she headed off for work, but I held her off.”

  “Thank goodness.” I plop down at the kitchen table, glancing at the clock again. “It’s almost 7 p.m.? I’m going to be late.” I jump up and grab a glass of water, careful not to stumble. I’m not sure I trust my feet yet.

  “For what?” Claire asks.

  “I gotta go to Walker’s.” I down the whole glass, even though swallowing still hurts.

  “He can wait.” She pushes a chair toward me. “You sit down right now and tell me what’s going on.”

  “There’s no time.” I grab my car keys and race to the car.

  “What’s your hurry?” she yells as the screen door slams behind me. “You shouldn’t be driving!”

  I shove the key in the ignition and pause. What is my hurry? I don’t even know. But I’ve got to go. I can’t sit still. I rev the engine and pull out of the drive. Fifteen minutes later, I arrive on Walker’s doorstep. As I approach the front door, I glance down at my rumpled, slept-in clothes. I attempt to smooth my hair, not that I’m worried what Walker thinks of my appearance. I ring the doorbell twice before he answers.

  “Emma?” Walker opens the door with a puzzled expression on his face. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s 7 o’clock. Don’t you remember inviting me to dinner?” My neck and shoulders pick this exact moment to spasm. I should’ve taken more ibuprofen.

  “And who’s this?” A plump woman barges into the doorway. Even though she barely stands five feet tall, her attitude towers over both of us.

  “Mom, I’d like you to meet someone,” Walker mumbles, a sheepish expression on his face. “This is Emma Roberts. She’s… uh… interested in police work.”

  “Is she, now?” Mother Walker puts her hands on her ample hips.

  My forehead throbs. I am so not up for this.

  “Why don’t you come in?” Her words are a command, not a question.

  What can I do but obey?

  “Charlie didn’t mention he was having an extra guest for dinner tonight.” She sighs dramatically. “I guess his mother and sisters aren’t enough company for him anymore.”

  Walker crosses the living room with long strides and flops into a chair at the kitchen table. “Sorry, Mom, I forgot.”

  I wait for Walker to apologize to me, too; but his mouth stays shut and he avoids eye contact. That’s real nice of him. Plus, his place looks like That 70s Show. This is so not cool. The carpet is green. The walls have patterned orange wallpaper. And all the trim is dark and narrow. Walker wears cowboy boots and drives a truck, but lives like this? It’s so weird.

  “I’ll get you a plate.” Mother Walker grabs my shoulder and directs me into a chair at the dinner table, igniting another surge of pain from the bruises concealed by my turtleneck.

  I glance across the table at Walker’s two teenaged sisters. Their wide eyes take in the scene. Their hands stifle giggles.

  “Would you like a glass of wine, Emma?” Mother Walker pauses before adding, “That is, if you’re old enough.”

  “No, thanks. I just turned twenty,” I mumble, knowing full well this is the wrong answer.

  The look she gives her son could freeze fire.

  “Charlie has always dated the most beautiful women.” His mother’s gaze settles on my bed-head and slept-in wardrobe. She turns to her son. “What ever happened to that lovely Jasmine girl?”

  Walker focuses on the table. “Uh… It didn’t work
out.”

  “Why not?” She slides a plate of food in front of me, but I’m completely distracted by Walker’s embarrassment. I’ve never seen him this awkward before.

  “We… didn’t have anything in common,” Walker mumbles.

  “What are you talking about?” Mother Walker crosses her arms. “You had lots in common!”

  He brushes imaginary crumbs from the table.

  Mother Walker turns to me. “Emma, what do your parents do for a living?”

  The worst question ever! “Uh… my father started the Roberts Hardware store…”

  “I bet you’ve never had to work a day in your life. Had everything handed to you on a silver platter, eh?”

  I shove a forkful of roast in my mouth. “Dinner is great.” Actually, I can’t taste a thing. Walker is going to pay for this. And I have an on-campus tutoring job, by the way, lady.

  Mother Walker glances out the window. “That’s a nice car you’ve got parked outside.”

  “Thanks.” Swallowing hurts so much my eyes water. I grab the glass of milk off the table.

  “Was that a high school graduation present?” she asks.

  I swallow hard. “Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately? Don’t you even appreciate what your parents do for you? My son always appreciates his momma.”

  I spend the rest of the meal listening to Mother Walker’s ideas of what type of woman is good enough for her son, and by that I mean definitely not me. Every time I try to tell her she needn’t bother worrying, because I’ve no interest in her glorious son, Walker glares at me with eyes that could silence a storm. I push the last five peas around the plate until Mother Walker’s pursed lips accuse me of insulting her cooking. I shovel the cold peas in my mouth, wincing in agony.

  “Since you ate your veggies, you can have dessert.” She removes my empty plate.

  “Thanks, but I can’t eat another bite,” I protest, basically because it hurts so much to swallow. Plus, I’ve most likely lost my appetite for the rest of my life.