“Hello, Callie, Thatcher,” he says, smiling. “This is Genevieve—she joined us this week.”
Genevieve has wide eyes and one of those mouths that relax into a frown.
Thatcher does little more than give her a nod in welcome. Nick, on the other hand, would have been totally gracious and known her entire life story in two minutes flat. He would have had her laughing in three.
I study this person who maybe can relate to what I’m feeling a little bit—the sweeping sense of devastation I’m dealing with.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Or, um, the loss of you . . . or . . .” What does a person say in this situation?
“Hi.” Ignoring my sympathetic gaffe, she rests her eyes on Thatcher, who’s no longer looking in our direction. He and Ryan have moved away from us and seem to be engaged in a serious discussion.
I catch only a few of Ryan’s words: “—an eye out for possible trouble.”
“They won’t do anything if we’re here.”
“They’re getting bolder. Sarah had an encounter . . .” His voice goes so low that even straining, I can’t make out what he’s saying.
Thatcher swears harshly. Is that sort of language allowed in the afterlife?
“Is he your Guide?” Genevieve whispers to me.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Oh.” And I hear her wistful tone, like she’s thinking I’m so lucky.
I don’t know why, but I feel a sense of ownership over the strong shape of Thatcher’s shoulders, the way his lips are parted slightly, his eyes narrowed as he scans the area like his stance alone can thwart any danger.
Stepping back over to us, Ryan smiles at me, and if ghosts could blush, I would.
“Genevieve,” says Ryan, extending his hand in an inviting gesture. “Your mom . . .”
With a sigh, Genevieve turns back to the tour, and I can almost feel her energy level ebb. “My mom . . .”
I eye Genevieve warily. When I returned to Earth and saw Nick the first time, nothing in the world could have kept me from reaching out to him. Is she so distracted by Thatcher that she forgot her haunting?
“You’re here to see your mom?” I ask.
“Yes.” She looks at me with calm eyes. “She’s lovely, but so sad.” She turns to Ryan. “We’ll help her, right?”
Ryan nods, and the two of them move away without a word and head closer to Genevieve’s mom.
“Is everything all right?” I ask Thatcher.
“All under control.”
I don’t think he’d admit it if it weren’t.
“Why does Genevieve seem so oblivious?” I ask.
He appears slightly guilty, like the answer is somehow his fault. “That’s the normal state for someone who is new to the Prism.”
I can understand how it would make the transition easier. “I guess that’s why Ryan freaked out about my emotional outburst.”
He gives me a wry grin. “Yeah.” As though he expects more questions, he nods toward the group. “Pay attention.”
Lantern Guy is talking more loudly now, shouting to be heard by the back row of tourists. “Your cameras will capture orbs of light—those are ghosts, and sometimes you can catch as many as ten at a time in a photograph.” The tourists take out their Canons and start snapping away. The flashes point toward us, and I put my hand in front of my face to block all the lights.
“Old wives’ tale,” says Thatcher, leaning in toward me. He’s relaxed again, in Guide mode. “Those are just lens flares they’re getting.”
“So we won’t . . . show up?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “They have no idea we’re here.”
“Tragic.”
“What?”
“Well, these people are in the presence of real ghosts, and they’re going to fall for Lantern Guy’s tricks.”
Thatcher doesn’t reply, but he appears amused.
The flashes stop as the guide starts talking again. “There’s been more paranormal activity this summer than ever before.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, like he’s letting this whole tour group in on a big secret.
Ping-ping.
Searching in the area of the unexpected sound, I see a couple of small stones bouncing off a particularly haggard-looking tombstone. When I follow them to their source, I spot Leo. He’s with another guy—a tall, lanky type. They’re sitting on the roof of an ornate Gothic mausoleum, laughing as they toss stones in the air.
The way they’re glowing in the dark night, against the aging, jagged stone, they look lit up with a spotlight, like performers in a show. And I guess they are. Each time a rock hits the gravestone, the tourists jump, but I can tell they’re all having fun seeing this. It’s what they came for.
Thatcher’s presence is closer than ever, over my shoulder, and when I turn slightly, his face is inches from mine. I can see the sweep of his long eyelashes over his cheeks when he blinks. If he were alive, I’d be able to inhale his scent. He strikes me as a classic Ivory soap kind of guy. He’s so intense, and while on one level his seriousness irritates me, on another his dependability is incredibly attractive.
“Let’s go,” he says quickly.
I step away. “Not yet.” I eye him carefully. “This is interesting. They’re moving things—people can see that they’re here.”
Thatcher shakes his head. “They shouldn’t be here.”
“Those little rocks aren’t going to hurt anyone. Show me how to do that. I want to throw a stone.”
He frowns. “No, Callie, you cannot throw a stone.” He darts a quick glance up at Leo and the other guy with disdain before settling his gaze back on me. “It takes a lot of energy to move things—they can only do it because they’re sharing energy, which can have unintended consequences. And for what? They have absolutely nothing meaningful to do here. They’re just performing parlor tricks!”
“Wow, you’re really mad.”
Thatcher inhales, no doubt a habit from when he was alive. “Forget them. We’re here to help your loved ones grieve, not to act like circus monkeys.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I just thought it might be fun.”
“It’s not fun to mess with the living. It’s dangerous.” He points up at Leo and the skinny guy. “They are dangerous.”
Leo is holding on to a tree branch, jostling it in the air. “There’s no wind,” the tour guide loud-whispers. “And yet it moves. . . .” The people on the ghost tour are oohing and aahing, snapping photos and chattering energetically about this being the best ghost tour ever.
I shrug, imagining how rapidly my heart would be beating if I were on the tour and didn’t know the truth—the wild adrenaline rush of the possibility of ghosts. Even though I didn’t believe in ghosts, these guys could spook me. Or more likely I’d have been convinced it was all fake and talked Nick into hanging back so we could investigate and figure out how it worked. “It looks totally harmless to me. It’s just giving the people a thrill.”
“Creating thrills is not our purpose.”
And then, as quickly as they appeared, Leo and his friend create a portal of glowing light and vanish through it.
Thatcher sighs, visibly relieved, and I decide to save the rest of my questions for later, maybe for Leo himself.
“She’s what we’re here for,” Thatcher says.
I crane my neck to see where he’s pointing. The tour guide is saying something about a woman named Theodosia Burr Alston, and that’s when I spy Carson’s glossy curls as she stands up from where she was sitting on a bench in the front of the crowd.
She brushes her hair out of her face, revealing that her normally sparkling eyes are tired. She has dark circles and she isn’t wearing any makeup, which is rare for Carson, especially when she’s out. Her usually smiling mouth is clenched in a tight line, and her sadness is so unfamiliar that my heart cracks open some more at the sight of it. She should be laughing, singing, dancing around like she always does, even in the face of darkness. But losing a best friend might be enough to break the brightest spirit I’ve ever known. I can’t let that happen.