“Thatcher did keep a secret from you,” she says, almost to herself. “Nothing’s happening. This is the right spot, but nothing’s happening.”
Before I can stop her, she brushes my hair aside, her fingers grazing my neck like little pinpricks of fire, trying to ignite into a full blaze. “You have no moon.”
“Because I’ve had no success at helping those I love move on.”
“No, you should have something. And it should be blackening now, but there’s nothing.”
I feel a rush of anger—mixed with fear—shoot through me. “What are you talking about?”
“Look around, Callie,” she says. “Maybe you can even find a piece of your precious BMW as a souvenir.”
Then it hits me, and my world reels like I’m on a Tilt-A-Whirl. We’re alongside Route 52, in the arm of the curve where I crashed. It’s dark, the leaves overhead fluttering in the trees, and my head starts to spin. I hear my own laughter, I see the bright yellow bag where I grabbed my phone, I hear Nick’s voice, I smell a hint of magnolia over burning rubber, I see the flash of the truck’s metal grille in the setting sun . . . and I feel the crash. Spinning, snapping, banging, pounding, breaking . . . I’m up against the windshield, pinned in between my seat and the glass, which are just inches apart.
My brain is reliving my death, and instead of the jolt and tidal pull that moves me through a tunnel of white noise, this time I hear sirens and see flashing lights. Men shouting, a woman holding my hand. I look into her eyes. “Where’s Thatcher?” I ask weakly.
“Callie!” Thatcher’s voice breaks my reverie, strong and clear. He’s standing by a portal on the other side of the road. There are no ambulances, no woman holding my hand. I’m just standing by the dark road, with the poltergeists.
“Come with me!” he shouts over the rain.
He reaches out to me.
“She’s ours now!” Reena shouts.
Suddenly she and Leo grab me. Sharp pings arrow through me from my head to my toes, and I feel a huge pull inside of me. My strength is waning. I’m fading like fog dissipating before the sun.
“No!” Thatcher shouts.
I try to break free, to escape.
A great whoosh of energy hurtles past me and takes Leo with it. In that instant, I experience a surge of power. It’s enough for me to wrench free of Reena’s hold and stagger back. I raise my fists. I’ve never hit anyone, but I’m sure as hell not going down without a fight.
Thatcher must have lowered his shields, because he’s grappling with Leo. Sparks are flying with each punch. Electricity is crackling in the air.
I swing around looking for Delia and Norris, but they’re nowhere to be seen. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Reena barreling back toward me. I turn to face her—
I’m swept up into strong arms—
A high-pitched screech pierces the air.
“I figured it out, Thatcher!” Reena shouts. “I know why she’s different.”
It’s almost like we’re flying as Thatcher dives for the portal.
“I know what she is! I know she’s—”
Blessed silence as the portal closes around us.
Twenty-Five
WHEN WE EXIT Thatcher’s portal, my eyes have to adjust.
The lighting is dim—mostly candles, flickering in the distance. We seem to be standing at the end of a long hallway. . . .
As our surroundings come into view, I realize where we are. It’s a church.
Despite the chaos of what just happened, I feel an immediate sense of calm and peace. This isn’t my church, not the one where we used to go with Mama—but the feeling is familiar nonetheless. On Sundays she’d put on a flowery blouse, let me wear my favorite patent-leather shoes, and help Dad get his tie on straight. I don’t remember the sermons, but I remember the way Mama’s perfume smelled, and holding Dad’s hand as we walked up to our usual pew, halfway down on the left side. But since she died, I’ve mostly been to worship with Carson’s family, and then only on holidays when Dad thought it might be nice for me to be a part of the rituals and traditions of religion, even though I overheard him tell a pastor who came to visit after Mama died that he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.
I see a few figures kneeling up front, heads bowed in prayer. I notice that there are glowing souls here, too—ghosts—like the older man sitting with his hand on the shoulder of the white-haired lady next to him. She’s holding a handkerchief up to her face as if she’s afraid she’ll cry if she lets go. His light surrounds her, though, like he’s keeping her safe.
“They’re haunting,” I whisper to Thatcher as I gesture in the couple’s direction.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s the third and final level of haunting—a heart connection. It’s creating an internal peace for the Living, one that comes from them instead of from the ghost.”
It does look peaceful, the two of them in a soft cocoon of light.
It also feels so far away from where I am—from what I’ve seen.
“Why am I not a normal ghost?” I ask Thatcher. “Why hasn’t it worked that way for me? What was Reena talking about? That she had figured out why I’m special.”
“I’m so sorry, Callie,” he says, his voice a reverential whisper. I guess even ghosts stay quiet in church. “The Guides aren’t permitted to interfere when a ghost is like you—we’re supposed to teach you to haunt, just in case . . .”
He pauses, and looks me in the eyes. “There’s a reason I didn’t want you to draw portals on your own. I didn’t mean to lie to you. I just didn’t want you to come here . . . to learn the truth . . . in case the worst happened.”
I tilt my head. “Reena used your lie as a way to manipulate me. But I still don’t understand what you mean by—”
His face hardens as he interrupts me. “You have to believe that I had no idea Reena would use you this way. I never knew that she was capable of . . . whatever it is she’s planning.”
“They’re taking bodies,” I say.
He shakes his head no. “They’re playing with possession,” he says. “But they’re not at the stage where they can take over a body yet, not really.”
I bite my lip, not sure how he’ll react to what I know. “They mentioned the three levels of the soul,” I say. “Delia said that if they take a body three times, they can somehow . . . stay there?”
Thatcher’s face goes ashen, his sharp jaw turns slack, and he buries his head in his hands. When he looks up a moment later, his eyes look far away. “They know,” he says, his voice shaky.
“It’s true then?” I ask.
He turns to me, refocusing on my face. “The Guides have known for a long time that possession was possible—it’s one of the secrets we’re sworn to protect, because if other ghosts knew they could find a body and stay on Earth . . .”
“It would be chaos,” I finish.
“Right,” says Thatcher.
“How did the poltergeists learn about possession?” I ask. I look down, afraid to meet his gaze. “Is it . . . my fault?”
“What?”
“They said it was because of me,” I say. “Because of my energy.”
“No, no . . . ,” says Thatcher, and he inches closer to me on the pew as I look up at him again. “Callie, Reena and Leo have been searching for a way to stay on Earth since the day we died. It’s not your fault.”
“They think that if they live again, they’ll be able to be with their families,” I tell him. “They promised me that if I joined them, I could stay with the people I love on Earth.”
Thatcher shakes his head.
“No—” I say. “Let me finish. I know that isn’t true; I know that’s not how it works. But it’s an appealing promise, one that will help them recruit more ghosts who refuse to merge with Solus.”