"Then what do we do now?" The blonde girl asked, standing up. Her hand smoothed the wrinkled fabric in her dress, but she seemed not to notice the automatic movement. Her earrings sparkled. "How can we know you're not lying?" She scoffed, crossing her arms. "How convenient that you've just walked in, and there's a ghost at the door."
I had faced so many non-believers that I almost knew their arguments by heart. Her challenge didn't faze me, in the end it was Mark's opinion on my ability that mattered. He was my employer, and the only one that had to believe in me. "It's not convenient at all." I responded as I carefully avoided Mark's aura, rather focusing on the door. "They're everywhere. I just avoid those that are dangerous, and choose to ignore the rest. But she's dangerous. You better stay away from him, from her."
"Bullshit." Peter spat. "Isn't he you dad's favorite. He's been your bodyguard many times, you'd know he's a killer if he was one. This guy isn't legit. Did you rehearse it?"
I turned to face the three of them, uncomfortable as to why Mark would need a bodyguard. Yes, of course, his dad seemed to be a wealthy business man, and he apparently owned the club. I couldn't fathom the kind of money this lot managed. That made me a little angry, a little jealous. My gaze flickered to each, and I decided Peter was going to be my test subject. Call it a little revenge and a little something to take the edge off. "For example," I added as I approached the thug. "In my way in, I didn't pay attention to the ghost that is sitting next to you."
I watched triumphantly as Peter jumped up as if the sofa burnt his ass. "You crazy motherfucker."
"He looks like you." I muttered, and the room fell silent.
A brother, I understood. I figured it was his older brother. A sudden wave of sadness washed over me, and for an instant I forgot Peter had been the bully that had tormented me for so many years and in his place, I saw a young brother. I saw Silas, slipping in my blood as he scrambled to drag me out of harm's way. The fire licked the soles of my bare feet. Had I died that night, would Silas had become like Peter? I recognized the thug for what he truly was, a lost boy, a grieving brother, and I stopped wanting to hurt him.
"Don't worry, your brother doesn't blame you."
Peter grabbed the lapel of my windbreaker, making my balance difficult. I caught a glimpse of the vulnerable kid he'd once been. I didn't want to fight anymore, his brother's sadness fatigued my senses. The ghost of his brother placed a hand on his shoulder like it hurt him to see Peter like that. "Don't. Ever. Talk. About him. With your dirty mouth. Freak." His upper lip curled in disgust. "I told you, Markie. This bitch is clever. He's investigated all of us. He'll exploit our weaknesses."
"Peter," Mark warned, and his voice tickled the back of my ear. I gasped when I realized he was just behind me. With the scuffle, I had almost forgotten about him, like his presence tried to scurry back to the corners of my mind that I never visited. He'd snuck up behind me, and I'd let him do it. I hadn't even heard his advance. And that was dangerous. I shouldn't have turned my back to him. It was a sobering thought to know that he could've attacked me, and I would've been the easiest of preys.
Sabela must've been stirring in her tomb. When I was around Mark, I wasn't the cautious boy she'd raised, and she'd surely chastise my decisions. She would've known what to do, and I had a feeling she'd have rather chosen to pay an unfair debt than work against her will. Haven't I told you already? I was a coward.
I shook my head. "If you don't believe me, then my work is done here. I'll be on my way." I wrenched free from Peter. "It was nice meeting you all," I lied. I loved having an easy way out, and it had been easier than I expected.
I'd go out of the club, and then I'd take the bus home, and I'd tell Silas I was going back to my job at the restaurant. And I'd forget—"Wait." This time, it was Mark that held me. I looked at the place where his hand circled my wrist. I hissed, trying my best to ignore the burning sensation from his touch. Hell. It burned like Hell. The demons stirred, and their presence grew immediately stronger. A demon claw scratched Mark's arm towards my hand. They wanted me, I recognized their hunger. That's what made Bad Omens so obsessed with seers.
They fed from us.
"Don't touch me," I whispered.
Maybe it was the slight terror that made my voice crack, or the panic that settled in my expression for a flickering second before I gout myself under control, but Mark let go of me like he was the one being burned. "Let's try it, witch. I'll take my chances."
"Maybe you're just desperate," the bond guy added. His deep voice surprised me. He slapped his thigh as he lazily stood up. "Let's talk to Doug."
"Let's call you dad," Peter suggested instead. Then, he seemed to think of something else. "If she's dead, where's her body?"
I shrugged. "It's not like I can ask and she'll happily tell me. There are rules."
Blonde girl clapped. "Of course. How convenient."
"Lily, you creature of little faith," his twin brother scolded. "I want to see this. So, witchy boy, what should we do next?"
"I'm going to talk to her."
Mark tilted his head. "Didn't you say you couldn't talk to her?"
"I said I couldn't ask her. But—But I can talk, and she can listen, if she wants to." Which was the most I could do for her because hers was the decision, and that was a matter to respect if you didn't want to become their target.
The ghost of Peter's brother didn't like the idea. I shrugged, and got out of the room before they could follow. I undid the steps I had taken fifteen minutes earlier, and I reached the door. Doug awaited for me outside. His attitude was as cold as it had been before, and I couldn't lie to myself. It made me a little nervous.
"I'm giving you two options, and whether you take one or the other, I will accept as well. I'm a messenger and not an executioner, for I have no power over you. "
Doug frowned. "Are you talking to me?"He was strong enough to kill me with a punch.
Mark slowly walked out, his hands in his pockets as if he was watching something entertaining. Not a lot of trouble bothering his slight smile. "Let him finish first, Doug."
The guard observed me with reticence.
"I can free yourself, and he will suffer no more by your hand—"
"But he'll be punished," Mark interrupted.
"But he'll be punished," I repeated, swallowing the lump in my throat. "You can then show us where you are, and I'll give your body a rest."
Doug looked at Mark, clearly nervous. "Are you crazy?"
"Let him finish," Mark ordered. The darkness in his aura stirred, its tendrils slammed against me.
"Or you can remain forever tied to him, and make him suffer yourself. Deliver the punishment you consider fitting."
Grandma taught me the rules that I needed to remember if I wanted to help her at her job. She told me good seers remained alive because they knew when to follow the rules and when to break them. When in lack, you could substitute lactating milk with the milk of a goat. It was an insignificant rule in the grand scheme of cosmic rules that no creature gave a fuck about. Who cared if you used one kind of milk or the other if the ritual was performed correctly?
The thing was, talking to ghosts wasn't as easy as it seemed. One couldn't simply barge in and ask, and expect a response back. Maybe ghosts weren't as dangerous in my world, but they weren't innocent little creatures either. Even the worst of seers knew ghost didn't like to be forced. You must always offer a decision.
She did nothing. "Okay. She's chosen."
"What did she choose?"
"He wants him to suffer by her hands. You killed her, and the baby she carried. And it's not a sin she can forsake."
Doug looked surprised at first, taken aback by my words, or maybe, maybe... "You didn't know she was pregnant?"
Doug's hand shot out. "I'm going to kill you."
I crouched down, throwing my hands over my head—which, in hindsight, offered me as much protection as a layer of Saran Wrap—, but the blow never came. At first, I thought Mark had blocked Doug. And then I noticed. There was a body close to me that didn't belong to Doug, and didn't belong to Mark—I'd have hated to confess that I already knew how Mark smelled, and that wasn't it.
I looked up and the man that towered over me was tall and well-built. His suit probably costed as much as two months of my rent, and his golden watch was probably half a million dollars. Not that I knew what brand of watch he was wearing, or what designer his clothes were, but I just knew—just like I know most things in life. I knew power when I saw it.
He looked like an older version of Mark.
"Douglas. What are you doing bothering these children?"
"They're accusing me of murder, boss."
The old man that looked like Mark tilted his head down, he made eye contact with me. "Is that so?"
"Dad, I can explain."
"You wait your turn." His dad ordered, and Mark didn't dare speak again. To me, he narrowed his eyes. "You're that witch."
It was a curious thing that out of the hundred names my kind of people had, they chose to call me by the name of the people they burned at stakes. "I'm not a witch, sir."
"Then, what are you?"
I briefly glanced at Mark, who was cautiously looking at the interaction with eyes that warned me not to step out of line. Slowly but surely, I gained my footing to stand up. "Just Mitchell is alright."