“That’s a problem,” says Thatcher.
“We can stop them. Together.” I say it strongly, with conviction, because I mean it with every fiber of my being. I’ll stand with Thatcher and the Guides; I’ll let them use my energy and my ability to see when a poltergeist is attempting a possession.
Thatcher wraps me up in a hug, and I freeze for a moment. He smells like a summer breeze and fresh-cut grass . . . am I imagining that? I take another deep breath anyway and rest my head on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Then he backs out of the hug and stands up, holding out his hand for me to do the same.
Before I take it, I say, “You have to explain it all to me.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I stop him. “I know there has to be some sort of Guide order, or something. I know you go somewhere other than your prism when you leave me. I want to see it. I want to be a part of it all.”
“Callie, I—”
“Thatcher,” I interrupt. “No excuses. Just answers.”
He turns his head toward the front of the sanctuary, looking out into the candlelit silence.
When he turns back to me, his face is serious. “You’re the only one,” he says, and my heart stops for a moment.
“You’re the only ghost we know of who can see when a body is taken,” he continues. And my heart beats again.
“Oh,” I say. “Right.”
“We have to track the poltergeists,” says Thatcher, answering my questions before I can ask them. “With you, we’ll know when they’ve attached to a body, so we have a chance to expel them.”
I nod my head. “Go on.”
“It’s going to sound crazy,” he says.
“Thatcher, almost everything you say sounds crazy.”
He smiles at me.
“Okay,” he says. “We’ve talked about how the soul is divided into three parts. All three must be taken before possession can be achieved.”
“Meaning?”
“The poltergeists can’t just own a body on the first try,” he says. “It takes longer than that. But each time they enter someone, another piece of the soul is weakened, vulnerable. In order to achieve permanent possession, the poltergeists have to enter the same body three times.”
Carson. Eli. My palms start to sweat. “What happens after the third time?”
“Then they’re able to attach themselves for good. And the host soul is replaced.”
“Replaced?”
“The soul dies,” he says. “The poltergeist permanently owns their body.”
“And the former soul comes to the Prism?”
“No,” says Thatcher, eyeing me carefully. “Souls that are banished from their bodies this way simply disappear. No Prism, no Solus . . . just ash.”
“Ash?”
“They blow away like dust. They cease to exist.”
I drop my head, trying to take this in.
“I told Reena . . . ,” I say, hesitantly looking up at him again. “I told her I thought it was murder.”
“What did she say?” he asks. I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t want to believe she’s one hundred percent evil.
“She said she wasn’t thinking of it like that,” I say, standing. “She said they’ll take the bodies of people who won’t be missed.”
Suddenly a wave of exhaustion hits, flushing my entire body of energy. I feel like I’m going to fade away into nothingness. I can no longer support myself. I’m collapsing into myself, sinking to the tiled floor. My brain is addled, slowed, and my vision goes blurry. It feels like I might pass out, so I sit back down on the pew.
“What is it?” asks Thatcher as he bends down with me.
“I don’t know,” I say meekly. “So . . . tired . . .”
“They must be in your prism,” he whispers, his eyes widening. “They were invited—”
“Only Reena.”
“She might find a way to steal your energy and transfer it to them. They’ll just get stronger, and you’ll get weaker. Our personal prisms are connected to us. Through your prism, they can drain all your energy. They won’t stop until they have you.”
“What do you mean?”
His face flickers with emotion, and I see a tiny tear form in the corner of his eye. With a shaky finger, I reach up to touch it. For once I can read his eyes, full of wanting, long-held yearning, long-denied desire, and he takes my hand, leans in, and plants a single, soft kiss on my lips. My body feels explosive with just one light touch. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
He steps back for a moment, and he says, “Callie, I—”
But he doesn’t finish his sentence; I won’t let him—I just press my lips to his, and it isn’t like any kiss I’ve ever had. It’s a kiss that feels like it’s been written in the stars for a thousand years, like it’s filled with right now and yesterday and eternity all at once. It tugs at me with a sadness I can’t explain, and in its urgency I hear a warning bell, an alarm—it’s as if the fire between us is going to consume the last breaths we’ll both take.
I’m melting into him and I can’t feel my body. My entire being is tingling with sensation. If ghosts can feel this much, it’s almost as good as being alive. Maybe it’s better. My thoughts fade as I let myself give in to the pure pleasure of this moment.
When we part, confusion fills my mind like smoke. I feel foggy and lost and warm and chilled to the bone all at once. Because that wasn’t just a kiss—it was a revelation.
And I know that in death I’ve found something true. I wonder if it’s the anticipation of this kiss that has weakened me this way. When we part, Thatcher is holding me up. But instead of the elation that I feel, I see despair in his face.
“What is it?” I ask.
“We have to close your prism. It’s the only way to save you.”
“What are you talking about?” He doesn’t answer, just shoulders my weight as he walks me down the aisle toward the sanctuary exit. It’s the first time I don’t feel weightless—it’s almost like I have my body, my real body, dragging me down. But I go willingly—I’d follow him anywhere. I hold on to him tightly, taking in the Earth once more, knowing that I’ve made a decision now: I’m leaving my life here behind. I’ll fight the poltergeists beside Thatcher, I’ll merge with Solus, I’ll . . .
The bright lights outside the door startle me. I hear the click-clack of sharp shoes on linoleum floors, and I squint as my eyes adjust to blinding fluorescent bulbs. As we walk together down a hallway, I see white coats, green scrubs, metal carts with needles and tubes.
We’re at the county hospital—that was the hospital chapel. Thatcher leads me down a hallway, with a purpose in his stride.
I can almost feel how cold it is here, smell the disinfectant.
Thatcher turns down one corridor and then another. He knows exactly where he’s going. I wonder at what’s happening, but when I try to form the words to ask him, nothing comes out. My energy, it’s gone.
I stumble. Thatcher catches me, supports me.
“Not much farther.” His words seem to be encouragement for me, but disappointment for him. I don’t understand.
Finally Thatcher urges me into a room, and as we pass through the door I see the back of my dad’s proud crew cut; I take in the width of his shoulders as he sits, straight backed, in a chair by the bed.
Who’s here? I wonder, and when I look up at Thatcher with a question in my eyes, he doesn’t meet my gaze.
“I wasn’t allowed to tell you,” he says solemnly. “I wanted so badly to tell you everything, to explain it all, but it was forbidden.”
He turns his eyes to me then, and I see that his beautiful ocean blues are brimming with tears. “They’ll keep coming for you now, and you’re so vulnerable—this is the only way I can protect you.”