Dead Living (Spirit Caller Book 5)

DEAD LIVING

Book 5 of the SPIRIT CALLER Series

Krista D. Ball

In this, the fifth installment of the Spirit Caller series, Rachel faces off with the dangerous men known as the Whisperers. New friends and old allies show up to help her in a heart-pounding race across Western Newfoundland.
 
Oh, and Rachel answers a rather important question about her future.

Copyright Krista D. Ball 2016

Editing by M. L. D. Curelas

Cover by Streetlight Graphics

Chapter 1

Bacon Makes Everything Better

Jeremy was kneeling next to me on my bathroom floor.
Our
bathroom floor. Ugh, someone’s bathroom floor. Jeremy patiently waited for me to relieve my sinuses before pressing a hand against my cheek. “Let me try this again. Rachel, I love you. Will you marry me?”

The snot buildup from sobbing over the pregnancy scare had affected my hearing. “What?”

Jeremy chuckled and said, very gently, “Rachel. Will. You. Marry. Me.”

“But…” I blew my nose again. The emotional rollercoaster, and the outrageously early hour were warring for which would send me into dry heaves. “I’m not pregnant.”

Another chuckle. “I know, Rach. You don’t have to answer right now. But…I wanted you to know that I want to marry you. Whenever you’re ready.”

If this had been a week ago, or a week from now even, I’m pretty certain I’d have been shrieking in excitement. Right now? I couldn’t process yet another bombshell. I thought I was pregnant. I’m not pregnant. Jeremy wants to marry me.

“But…”

I wiped my nose again and sniffed. The smell hit me. I hadn’t cleaned the toilet in weeks, so there was a whiff of mildew and stale urine all around me. I was blowing my nose from all of the crying, and there was a plastic stick sprinkled with my pee next to us. Four empty toilet tissue rolls had fallen out of the overflowing wastepaper basket. Several used wads of tissue that were wet from snot and tears surrounded me.

I’m pretty sure Jeremy never wanted to propose to me on a dirty bathroom floor.

“Jeremy…”

Jeremy must have understood my confusion. He kissed my cheek and moved the pregnancy test before pulling himself up to sit on the toilet seat cover. “I was planning the standard roses and dinner, with the expensive ring. The whole fairy tale. We can still do all that, too, but…I want you to know how much I love you. I want to spend my life with you.” He motioned at the pregnancy test. “I want to have children with you eventually when we’re
both
ready. I want to get rid of my apartment and live here, with you. Permanently, because we want to, and not because you’ve been looking after me. I want…Rachel, dammit, I want it all and I want it
with you
.”

Minutes ago, I was sobbing about how I might be pregnant. Then, I was sobbing because I wasn’t pregnant. Now, I was sobbing because Jeremy was asking me to marry him on my dirty bathroom floor.

No doubt smoke curled from my ears and, at any moment, the faint hint of burning wire and plastic would fill the air as whatever passed as my brain finally died from shock overload.

“I’m so confused,” I admitted lamely. I am seriously the most pathetic creature on the planet. Dema was going to berate me so badly for this, I just knew it. This was definitely one I couldn’t tell my mother, either, or any of my friends. The berating would be endless and eternal.

“We haven’t…I mean, we have…I mean…” I let out a sigh. “I guess there’s not been much time to talk about any of this stuff. But...Jeremy, where is this coming from?”

A lopsided grin spread across his face. “My heart?”

I knew I’d look back on this moment and roll my eyes at my brain-muddled self. I’d probably wish I’d climbed on top of him or grabbed him in a giant bear hug and screamed my acceptance so loud the neighbours thought I was being murdered.

Instead, I stared at him, trying to process the words coming out of his mouth. Marriage. With a wedding. “I…I can’t think.”

He pushed himself up. Jeremy was steadier these days. He was almost completely off the painkillers, and wasn’t even taking the super strong ones anymore. He didn’t use his cane anymore. In fact, he had an appointment in a couple weeks to get the go ahead to start
very light
jogging again. He was back working full-time, though most of it was behind a desk. He still had nightmares and panic attacks, but even those were lessening. The worst was behind us now.

Us
.

He held out his hand to me. “Come back to bed. We’ll talk about it later this morning, after you’ve gotten a bit more sleep.”

We.

Completely on autopilot, I put my hand in his and he hauled me to my feet. I stared at him and asked, “Do you really mean it?”

Jeremy rolled his eyes at me as we shuffled back to the bedroom. “No, not at all. I proposed to you in our dirty bathroom because I was bored.”

“The bathroom’s not that dirty.” I blew my nose again into the wad of toilet paper I was still clutching.

“It smells like a gym locker.”

“It didn’t before you moved in,” I said sullenly. I wiped my nose and smiled up at him. “I’m exhausted and I can’t think straight.”

He kissed my cheek and said, “Honey, it was a suggestion, not an ultimatum. Take all of the time you need.”

I smiled weakly at him and crawled back into the comfort of our bed. My side of the bed was cold and Jeremy snuggled in behind me. He tucked the thick duvet under my chin and wrapped himself tightly around me. My last thoughts were a blend of his proposal, the white plastic stick, and how I
really
needed to clean my bathroom floor.

XXXXX

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and perfectly cooked bacon greeted me three hours later. I woke to an empty bed, but the delicious smells promised me the delights of Jeremy, clad in black boxer briefs and an apron, cooking me breakfast.

Jeremy was an obnoxiously early riser, which was only made tolerable by his passion for breakfast. Since Jeremy was once again well enough to stand for a decent length of time, I’ve been eating a cooked breakfast every morning. The offerings varied: omelettes, hash browns, full breakfast with sausage and bacon, French toast. Hell, one morning, he made quiche. Quiche! At five in the freaking morning.

It’s been so bad that I’ve had to keep up my jogging routine just to stem the weight gain from the heavy breakfasts. Me.
Jogging.
The horror of it all.

But baaaaaaaaaaacon.

I yawned once more before dragging myself upright. A rapping on my bedroom window startled me. I flinched before I rolled my eyes. I didn’t even bother to look before motioning for my visitor to come inside.

In floated Dema through the window, my ghostly ethereal stalker. She was a thousands-year-old spirit who hung around my property and wouldn’t leave me alone. Ever. If asked for her version, she’d say she was protecting me. If you asked my version, I think she saw me more as a pet than a person. I suppose death gives you a new perspective on humanity. Or maybe she was this weird in life, too. Who’s to say?

Dema had many excellent qualities, but fashion wasn’t one of them. Her ghostly form sported jean short-shorts over pink yoga pants, moccasins, and a tanned leather tunic trimmed with fur at the neck and cuffs. Her hair was braided and decorated with beads and feathers.

I asked her once why she experimented with modern clothes, as opposed to more traditional clothes. She demanded what I knew of her traditional clothes, then said perhaps she was presenting me with an image of what I expected. Then, she sniffed and said she was old enough to wear yoga pants with whatever she wanted, thank you very much.

Dema is a really annoying spirit who reminds me far too much of my mother.

“Good morning, Dema,” I said automatically. It was easier to be polite than not; it got rid of her faster. “What can I do for you this morning?”

“I’m pleased the tall man wishes to shackle himself to you.”

I groaned as I shoved my feet into the hand-knitted slippers Mrs. Saunders had made for me. So much for her not knowing. “Thank you.”

“You should accept his offer before he leaves you for someone more stable.”

Definitely too much like my mother. I shoved my arms into a fuzzy house coat. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“The voting doesn’t happen for another month, as your television says constantly.” She paused. “Will you be voting for the blue people, the red people, or the orange people? I like the orange people.”

“You like the NDP?”

“They have excellent beards.” She frowned. “Why doesn’t the Tall Man like the Blue Man? And why does the Blue Man mock the Red Man’s hair? And why does everyone forget the Green Woman?”

I debated explaining Canadian political parties to Dema, and just as quickly decided against it. It was hard enough explaining our system to Americans on the internet, let alone to a spirit. It was way too early in the morning to explain Canada’s brand of politics.

I stretched my arms above my head, loosening my stiff muscles. “Jeremy’s making bacon and I’m hungry. If you’re not here for a good reason, please go away.”

If she was annoyed by my tone, she didn’t show it. “I am always here for a good reason.”

“Then what is this good reason today?”

Dema cocked her head. She thought for a moment before saying, “You should get a cat.” With that parting wisdom, she disappeared into the ether.

People seriously wonder why I didn’t embrace my talents years ago. What fifteen-year-old would be able to handle this emotional gong show? I’m thirty and I can barely handle it.

Dema’s fairly innocuous behaviour toward me wouldn’t have gotten Younger Rachel into serious trouble, but spirits are as varied as the people they once were. What would I have done if I’d come under the influence of a “greyscale” spirit? One that wasn’t evil, so much as immoral. Fourteen or fifteen is an excellent age for making ill-informed, reactionary, self-centered decisions. A spirit with no true moral compass could have turned me into a rather amoral person.

Even now, I kept my contact with Dema brief when it wasn’t hyper focused on one particular concept or event. I no longer suffered from headaches whenever the
other
approached me. That was permanent damage from a psychic attack when a man called a Whisperer decided I needed to disappear with no questions asked. It didn’t work out well for him, but I still bore the scars.

After that, Dema had taken upon herself to answer any questions I had about the development of my skills and talents as a Spirit Caller. Still, I didn’t like exposing myself to her influence more than necessary. I maintained that relationship as hands-off as possible. I wouldn’t risk having
me
altered.

Of course, I kept exposing myself to her influence because I couldn’t stop sticking my nose into places it didn’t belong. I really needed to work on that. Or, conversely, figure out how to get better so that I didn’t need Dema so much.

A cat, though, would be kind of nice. Jeremy liked cats.

After using the bathroom—and vowing I’d scrub it today—I shambled downstairs to be greeted by my blond Adonis in black boxer briefs and an apron. Jeremy’s hair was cropped short and his beard was gone. I missed the beard and flowing locks, but he was back at work and so the excess hair went. He did promise to grow out the beard the next time he was on vacation.

I wrapped my arms around him, but he shooed me away. I was in his man space. So I leaned against the counter and watched him work.

He wasn’t as gaunt as he was in the early days of recovering. He was leaner than before the accident, and he was all tight, ropey muscle. He was working out more and more, but taking his time just as his physiotherapist recommended. He didn’t want to risk re-injuring himself, and I was happy to have him alive. Trivial things like his muscle tone really didn’t play into that equation at all.

The scars still bothered me. Ugly, ragged scars where bullets and fragments tore into his flesh. Long surgical lines where they cut open my Jeremy. Pinprick scars where staples and stitches tugged him back together. But he was alive, in front of me, splattered in bacon grease. Every day, he grew stronger. Every day, I grow stronger—spiritually, personally, whateverly.

Jeremy stepped over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “What are you smiling about?”

I snagged a piece of bacon, just barely cooked so that the fat was still chewy: aka the correct way to cook bacon. “I was thinking how your hip screws will set off the metal detectors when we go on our honeymoon.”

The words just tumbled out, and they felt right. Of course I wanted to marry Jeremy. I was just worn out when he’d asked and needed a bit more sleep to think clearly. All I wanted was to be with Jeremy for the rest of my life, the big goof that he was.