Page 5 of Ashes and Lilies
“Or Bryce might possibly know,” Mr. Weaver continued loudly. I ignored the pang of irritation that shot through my heart.
How could Bryce be this popular even with the staff?
Mr. Weaver ignored my non-response as he continued, “He’d be better than the cops, for sure. He’ll take responsibility—”
“Wait!” I called after the ghost, and he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. What could I say? “I’m so sorry! When I saw Ms. Protean earlier, there was news that Cécile had escaped. She might be here.”
“Cécile?” Mr. Weaver grew pale, even for a ghost. He stared at me with a mixture of shock and horror. “How did it even get on my property? Did you see it, you say?”
Well, no, I hadn’t said. But I let him continue.
“I told those fools to keep that abomination away from me!” He spun and moved toward the door with even greater urgency. “I want nothing to do with their crazy idea. Let me get my rifle.”
I scrambled to my feet, rushing after him in a panic. My brilliant plan had backfired, and he was more frenzied than before.
“Wait!” I stepped after him, my arm outstretched. My only hope was to keep him from the house as long as possible. Hopefully, Damen was on the alert and his shikigami was already on the watch to prevent any nasty surprises.
I hadn’t noticed it, but I wasn’t sure if the shikigami was aspirit or something else. I wasn’t entirely confident in my skills, to say for sure, and we hadn’t really talked about it. Did it even have a name? What do you name a bird-spirit companion anyway? Polly would be too obvious.
Come to think of it, Damen couldn’t see ghosts without it being present—so ithadto be a different type of spirit.
Maybe it was a demon who had taken the form of a bird. It might have leeched on to Damen’s life force to remain in the human realm and do his master’s bidding.
I shook my head sharply, bidding the unwelcome, intrusive thought to disappear. I had much more important things to address. I’d have to ask Damen when I could.
Focus. Ghost now, questions later.
In seconds, I was beside Mr. Weaver. My fear that he would float through the door or do something equally dramatic had urged my body forward with a speed I didn’t normally possess.
I didn’t stop to think before I reached for his arm.
2
The instantafter my fingers brushed across his cold—but very solid—limb, Mr. Weaver lifted his cane.
“What are you—” he began, turning toward me. My gaze remained riveted to the stick even as he touched the tip back to the ground. I let go of his arm. My mind went blank as he moved. I couldn’t think or feel as my attention landed on his white-knuckled grip.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I couldn’t speak. Goosebumps had broken out over my skin, and the hair on my arms stood straight. I couldn’t look away.
Then I felt the rough deck underneath my elbows and butt. When had I fallen?
How silly—he wasn’t going to hit me after all.
“Calm yourself before you pass out—or something worse.” Mr. Weaver set his cane to the side—vaguely making me wonder if it was even necessary—and, with surprising strengthfor such an elderly man, wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me up to sit beside him on the top step of his back patio.
I breathed in, slowly regaining my bearings. For the umpteenth time, I wondered: Why couldn’t I be normal? And why did there have to be all this touching in normal day-to-day interaction?
“Here.” Mr. Weaver pushed my head between my knees. “Stop your fretting, and don’t die on my property. I really would hate to have the police hovering about. I loathe those meddlesome fools.”
My hysterical laugh escaped in a rush.
His awkward petting of my hair suddenly stopped, and he was frowning when I glanced at him. “Is there something wrong with you?” he asked.
“No!” Instantly, the numbness fled, and my hackles rose. That particular accusation affected me more than most.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “The longer I look, the more I’m convinced you’re not like everyone else. You clearly shouldn’t be left to your own devices.”
