Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Two.
That number smacks me across the face like a cold, dead fish. “Two days …”
“Already lost count?” He reaches a hand to sweep my messy bangs off of my forehead.
I turn away, frustrated.
He drops his hand with a sigh. “Griffin.”
“I want to go home,” I decide suddenly.
“It’s still raining. You’ll get soaking wet and you’re already cold. Let’s wait out the storm in here.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Griffin …” He lets out another sigh. “Can I come with you at least? I don’t want to leave things like this.”
I cross my arms tightly, glaring at the window. “Do whatever it is that pleases you the most,” I decide with a shrug. “You apparently do anyway.”
He ignores my attitude. “Alright. Give me a minute to close up the office. I’ll grab the big umbrella.” Off he goes to get dressed, turn off the remaining lights, and lock up whatever it is he needs to lock up.
I don’t deserve his patience.
Or his kindness.
I know I’m being petulant and selfish.
But I can’t help it. I feel alone, and the one person I should be able to count on—the man I’m about to make my husband—thinks I should let go of my best friend. No, there’s nothing conventional at all about any of this, and maybe I should be more patient and considerate of how Byron might be feeling right now, but my emotions are everywhere and it feels like no one has my back.
The only one who had my back unconditionally is lost somewhere in the streets, likely never to be heard of again. My two long years of friendship with a guy who doesn’t even have a heartbeat is over, and my fiancé thinks I should just let it go.
How else am I supposed to feel?
We brave the storm together, but to be fair, I live just down the block and around the corner from Spooky Beans, so it isn’t long before we’re through the doors of my apartment building and Byron is busy shaking off the umbrella. We climb the stairs together in silence. Nothing feels right. Everything is sideways and prickly. The storm outside only gets louder and more obnoxious by the minute. I hope West’s defenseless plants haven’t been blown off the fire escape by now. I usually bring them in when the weather gets this bad.
But it isn’t West’s plants that worry me when we open the door to my apartment. We’re met by a stony-eyed Mrs. Shaheen standing in the middle of my dark living room with her cane.
“Got the shivers?” she asks dryly, eyes on me.
Byron and I exchange a look. “Y-Yes,” I answer.
“You seeing people who shouldn’t be there? Scary, glowing eyes? Generally terrifying hallucinations?”
My mouth goes dry. I slowly nod.
She sighs with distress. “Oh, dear … it’s worse than I thought.” Her eyes turn sad and empty as she looks at me. “Your days are sadly numbered, child. Seems you have a case of the Deathies.”
-7-
The Deathies
I blink. “A case of the what-the-hell-did-you-say?”
“Deathies, obviously.” She lifts her cane at once and whacks the door shut behind us before stabbing the ground with it, startling us both. “Come on in. I brought you over some tea.”
Byron and I exchange looks away. “Mrs. Shaheen, what are you talking about?”
“I told you not to play with the dead, Griffin.”
She walks over to the tiny table by the fire escape, where she has set up a couple of teacups between an ornate kettle. After a moment of reluctance, Byron and I follow her over to the table.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she says as she pours us both a cup of tea, “but I let myself in. Really, this is a matter of literal life and death, so it’s quite important.”
I wrinkle my nose. Her teas always smell so odd. I don’t think I’ve taken a sip of any of them to this day. “I appreciate the tea, Mrs. Shaheen, but I’m not thirsty.”
“Oh, this isn’t for pleasure. You need to drink it.” She peers at Byron sternly. “You, too.”
Byron, who has kept stonily quiet since we came in, squeaks, “Me?”
“You think Griffin can overcome the Deathies by himself? He’s going to need a soul tether.” She taps Byron in the chest with a long finger decorated in three jeweled rings. “That’s you, cutie pie.”
Byron leans into me to whisper something about not daring to sip anything this paranoid lady brews up, but I’m less skeptical than he is. “Mrs. Shaheen, please tell me what these, uh … ‘Deathies’ are. No riddles. No weird talk. Just give it to me straight.”
“Everyone always wants it straight until they get it straight.” She hands me one of the teacups. “Drink.”
“Mrs. Shaheen …”
“Drink, I said.”
Nearly pushing the cup to my lips herself, I take it out of her hands, then gaze into its murky contents. Not even a drop of this smells pleasant. Why do I feel like I’m being punished right now?