Sisters of Blood and Spirit

“It will just take a minute.” Without waiting for his response, I veered right, down a worn path, and kept walking until I reached a familiar stone angel bowed over a matching bassinet. Both were smudged with age and dirt, with patches of moss clinging to them. Someone had left a bouquet of flowers—like the kind you got at the grocery store—on the small, flat headstone that was set into the grass. I couldn’t see the name on the stone, but I didn’t need to. I knew whose grave it was.

“Someone’s been here,” I said—like it wasn’t obvious.

“Kevin,” Mace replied. “He’s been coming every couple of weeks ever since it happened.”

No need to say what “it” was. My opinion of Kevin rose a little. Before I had tried to kill myself I had visited this sad little plot once a week, making sure it looked good, cleaning the stone. This was my first time back since returning to New Devon. I would have to thank him for taking care of Wren’s grave while I was gone.

“Is this the stop you wanted to make?”

I nodded as I picked a bit of moss from the angel’s head.

“Sorry I gave you a hard time about it.”

I shrugged. “They bought room for me, too.”

“What?”

I crouched down and moved the flowers so that he could see the headstone. “My parents.”

Mace peered over my shoulder. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” I traced the letters of my own name, carved there beside Wren’s. Unlike her, I had no expiration date below mine. I couldn’t even begin to articulate how I felt about having a grave all ready for me to move in whenever I needed it. “You know, I’m okay with not being there yet. I meant what I said earlier—you did the right thing. Thank you.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

I stood up. “Okay, let’s go. Take me to the spot where you guys sneaked onto asylum property.” The old hospital campus was locked up at night, but kids from New Devon had been sneaking in for as long as I could remember. I couldn’t remember any stories about people getting hurt, though I’m sure there were some. Maybe Mace and his friends had pissed off a ghost, but the more likely explanation was that recent construction on the site had stirred something up. Ghosts weren’t big on change. My newfound “friends” had simply stumbled in at the wrong freaking time.

Or something there was getting stronger.

We walked back along the path, then took a right on the main trail. It wasn’t long before we reached the stone wall. It had crumbled in spots, but was about eight feet tall, and topped with rusted barbed wire. The grass was tamped down around one particularly large tree. Someone had nailed boards into the trunk a long time ago—we’re talking the ’70s from the look of the wood. The bark there had been chipped and worn away from years of traffic.

“There’s a rope ladder on one of the branches,” Mace explained. “We climbed the tree, then went down the ladder.”

“Awesome,” I muttered, looking down at my cute shoes that were so not made for climbing trees. Neither was my dress. I felt completely ridiculous.

“Want me to go first?” he asked.

“Unless you want to be scarred for life by the sight of my granny panties, you’d better.” They were boy panties, but who could tell the difference in the dark.

He gave me an odd look, then scampered up the tree like he’d been born to do it. I followed a lot less gracefully. My shoes had smooth soles, so they couldn’t grip the homemade ladder. I still had the salt, too, so I was only holding on with one hand.

“Ow!” Damn splinter in my palm.

Mace’s hand appeared before me. “Your hand or the salt—give me one.”

I gave him the salt. I didn’t want him to get the idea that he was my freaking knight in shining armor or something.

Once I made it to the branch he was on—a limb thick enough to hold both of us—he held on to another branch for support and walked out over the wall. I inched along behind him. It would be just my luck to fall and break my fool neck on the asylum side. By the time I got to the rope ladder, Mace was already on the ground, holding the rope steady for me. There wasn’t any graceful way to descend a ladder that swayed and diped with every movement. I swore the entire time down—under my breath, of course.

“You’ve got a mouth like a sailor,” Mace commented when I joined him. The grass was brown and flattened by dozens of feet. That was good.

I opened the salt and began pouring it. “Met many sailors, have you? Is there something Sarah should know about you, Mace?”

“I love me a man in uniform,” he quipped. “What are you doing?”

“Making a salt circle around you.”

“Why?”

I didn’t look up. “Because this thing has had a taste of you and will be able to sense you’re here, and I don’t want to have to explain to Sarah that it took you on my watch.”

“Your concern is touching, Lark. Really.”

It wasn’t his sarcasm that made me look up, though I appreciated his skill at it. “I owe you. That means I’m going to do everything I can to keep you alive. You okay with that?”

“Yeah, I think I am.” His gaze locked with mine. We stood there, staring at each other. Awkward.

A cold breeze brushed my bare legs. I turned my head in its direction. “Feel that?”

“Yeah.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw his hand go to his chest as if it hurt. The ghost was coming.

I checked the ring I’d poured around him—it was a good, thick mound of salt that could withstand a spectral wind. Good.