Dust to Dust (22 page)

I take a deep breath, thinking about the question that Dylan asked me just before I left the bookstore: “Have you ever been close to anyone who died?” I'm starting to realize what he might have been suggesting, and a ray of sunlight cuts through the darkness, landing right on Thatcher's chest, where his heart would be, if it were still beating.

“Thatcher,” I say softly. When he looks up at me, his face brimming with concern, I know that I need to be completely open with him. We're in this together, and anything that might help us understand the poltergeists' movements is essential information. So I tell him, “My mother died in my arms.”

He blinks at me, confused. “What?”

“In the hospital bed,” I tell him. “I didn't remember it, really. But my father just told me that she took her last breath with my arms wrapped around her, while I was sleeping.”

Thatcher's face cracks with emotion—he looks as if he might cry. But somehow I feel incredibly strong in this moment, baring my truth for him. Like with Carson, Dylan, and Nick, it feels good to speak the truth. It feels good to trust.

“Oh, Callie,” he says. And I know that if he could, he'd put his arms around me and hold me.

“Is that important?” I ask him.

Thatcher nods, composing himself. Then he looks me straight in the eyes and says, very slowly and very clearly, “Yes. It means that you're a death spot.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THE RAY OF SUNLIGHT becomes a radiant beacon as Thatcher explains that my being a death spot, plus the fact that I was in the Prism while still attached to my living body through the coma, must be the unique combination that makes my energy so strong—and so coveted.

“I've never heard of these situations coming together before,” he says. “I've Guided souls who were death spots; dying in someone's arms isn't as rare as you might think. EMTs, hospice nurses . . . it happens. But that plus the coma and a living body—it must have sent your energy into the stratosphere.”

And that's why the poltergeists can use me. Only me.

“But how did they know I'd still have the high levels of energy?” I ask.

“I'm not sure that they did,” says Thatcher. “Maybe they've been testing your energy—in the hallway, and in the car—and they found it strong. Callie, they're experimenting with you whenever you're in a vortex, and somehow it's allowing them enough power to stay hidden from the Guides and to keep possessing people.”

“So what now?”

“We can't underestimate their focus. You're their only key to living again, which means you have to be very,
very
careful in the days to come.”

Thatcher theorizes that Reena and Leo will go for the bodies they've “broken in”—meaning Eli and Carson—because there's more chance for full success, a three-time possession, with them. Eli especially is in terrible danger, since he's been taken twice.

“Dylan warned me to stay away from vortexes,” I say.

“Listen to Dylan.”

I smile.

“What?” asks Thatcher.

“I think that's the first time you've ever advised me to listen to someone other than
you
.”

He softens. “Callie, if we can wait out the next few days, maybe the poltergeists will rapidly decline and we might finally be able to track them—to keep them from harming you.”

“Why won't you let me help you? I can do more than just play it safe. I've tested my powers and instincts; they're still strong.”

As soon as those words leave my lips, he and I are back on the pier again. I look out over the edge into the water, which was calm
when this dream started, but now it's choppy and rough.

“I know that it must feel like it, but this isn't your fight,” he says plainly.

My eyebrows rise. “I can't believe you just said that.”

“When you entered the Prism and I was chosen as your Guide, it became my duty to look out for you. I'm the one who should be taking the hits here.”

“So you feel obligated to me? Is that what you're saying?” I don't want to argue with him, but he can't possibly think that I'm going to let him get away with making me feel helpless.

“No, it's nothing like that,” he reassures me. “You're . . . you're everything to me.”

Suddenly I hear a beeping from behind me. I whip around to face Thatcher.

“What's that?”

“It's your alarm.”

“No!”

There's so much more that we have to say to each other. I still don't know what really happened with Wendy; I can't wake up now.

“Please, Callie, be careful. I'll stay near you if I can—until you get the ring back.”

“Don't go, not yet,” I say, reaching out for him, but in a split second he completely vanishes from sight.

And then I feel a sharp shove to my shoulders and I fall off the pier.

My eyes flutter open and I shoot up in bed. It takes a minute to calm my rapidly beating heart. I remember everything about
the dream, and I'm still tired, as if I didn't sleep at all. I turn off my phone alarm and look around my bedroom; everything is still neatly in place. I know what Thatcher wants me to do, but I have no choice but to listen to my intuition, which is telling me that waiting this out is a mistake.

And that this is most certainly my fight.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THE IN-SCHOOL SUSPENSION ROOM is down a set of stairs that feel like they lead to a dungeon. The windows in the basement room are tiny and near the ceiling. Still, they let in little rays of sunlight, and I can see the dust particles dancing in them like tiny polka dots. Despite that weird school smell, I take a deep breath and close my eyes for just a moment. Even though I may be in high school, in the ISS room with tiny windows, I have a special energy that the poltergeists are willing to kill for.

Because I'm a survivor of the Prism . . . and a death spot.

I open my eyes with a sigh, and as I stand in the empty space trying to choose a seat, I hear a voice behind me.

“‘A punishment to some, to some a gift, and to many a favor.' Lucius Annaeus Seneca, Roman statesman and philosopher.”

“Mr. Dixon,” I say, turning around with a smile.

“Ms. McPhee.”

It turns out there's a reason I haven't seen Dylan much at school—he's nearly always in ISS. And as his latest quotation indicates, he likes it here. I didn't know a person could maintain such a consistent schedule of being suspended without actually, you know, being expelled, but he seems to do it.

“I got ISS the second day I was here for trying to do an incantation during chemistry,” he says, sliding into the back corner desk that is, apparently, his regular seat in this dank room. “I was so into it that I zoned out and I let some toxic mixture explode in my beaker. Sonia Bigby got a piece of glass in her arm.”

“Yikes,” I say, but he waves off my concern.

“She was fine,” he says. “Drama queen.”

“Do your incantations work?”

“Possibly,” he says, scratching his head thoughtfully. “I don't have evidence that they do, but maybe their repercussions are happening in a dimension I can't see.”

I smile, impressed by his optimism, and he tells me that he only does positive incantations, because he believes that the good and evil of using energy is all about intention.

“Like with haunting,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that setting an intention of peace for your loved ones is part of the process,” I explain. “It's one way to achieve a truly soulful connection.”

Dylan stares at me with big eyes. “I wish I could see what you've seen.”

I look down, sad, blinking to keep my emotion in check. “No, you don't. I lost people there, in the Prism.”

When I glance up he has sympathetic eyes behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

The door opens with a creak and Mr. Dunkle, a slightly balding but fairly young substitute teacher, who seems to weave in and out of classrooms yet always have a stint for the day, walks in. He looks at us and says, “Hi, early birds.”

Then he nods at me and the way Dylan and I have our desks turned toward each other since we've been talking. “Recruiting friends, are we, Mr. Dixon?”

“You know me, sir,” says Dylan.

“By now I do.” Mr. Dunkle puts his feet up on his desk at the front of the room and opens up his newspaper. “As you were. Don't let me interrupt.”

“Dunkle's really easy on me,” says Dylan, lowering his voice, but only slightly. He explains that he gets his assignments from his classes and basically does them in ISS so he can keep up.

“So for you, this is more like a private learning environment,” I say.

Dylan shrugs. “Yeah, I prefer to think of the acronym as standing for
Independent Study Situation
,” he says. “I don't really like class. It bores me.” He reaches into his backpack and lugs out two gigantic and ancient books.
Tomes
, really, is the word for them. “These are today's work.”

“What are they?”

He opens up the first one and blows a layer of dust off its pages.
“They're both about possession,” he says. Then he thumps the other one with his hand. “Dig in.”

“What am I looking for?”

“I'm not really sure,” says Dylan, looking thoughtful. “Something about how to banish poltergeists from the Prism and ensure that they either merge or are kept away from Earth forever?”

“Right. Easy.”

“‘All good is hard,'” says Dylan, and I can tell he's quoting someone again—his voice changes slightly when he does it. “‘All evil is easy. Dying, losing, cheating, and mediocrity is easy. Stay away from easy.'”

“Who said that?” I ask.

“Scott Alexander, film writer and director.”

I smile. “He sounds smart.”

“I only quote the smart ones.” Dylan winks at me. “Let's get going.”

I nod. He and I are on the same page.

I start flipping through the smaller book, which still weighs like twenty pounds. There's nothing that jumps out at me right away, but eventually I find a section on the rule of three.

If a body is been taken three times, the original inhabitant's soul vanishes, giving fully vested control to the possessing spirit, which can now stay in the body until such time as the body dies.

A chill creeps up my spine. I should tell Dylan about the danger Carson's in, in case she hasn't. She may be downplaying all of it, like she does with a lot of serious things.

“Dylan?” I whisper tentatively.

Just then, the classroom door opens.

“Ah, Mr. Fisher,” says Mr. Dunkle, barely looking up from his paper. “I didn't know you were coming in.”

“It was spur-of-the-moment,” says Nick, handing Mr. Dunkle a note.

Mr. Dunkle glances at it and nods. “Take a seat; entertain yourself quietly.”

I meet Nick's eyes and he looks sheepish as he walks over to us.

“Hey,” I say softly.

“Hi,” he replies, standing at my desk.

The feeling between us is heavy, but not as off as I expected. Something has shifted within him; at least that's what I'm hoping.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Hunter was talking crap this morning,” he says with a frown.

I raise an eyebrow.

“He said you must be on steroids to have all that rage, that you must be addicted to painkillers and hallucinating after your coma.” Then Nick smiles. “So I laid him out.”

“You
hit
him?” I ask.

“I couldn't let him doubt you,” he says, grinning. “Not when every word you say is true.”

I know he's telling me that he believes me, he believes all that I told him last night. I feel a swell of gratitude as he shows me his bruised knuckles. It isn't like Nick to hit someone, but if it had to happen . . .

Dylan leans over to see Nick's bruises and lets out a low whistle.

“The soccer boys are having a rough week,” says Dylan.

Nick sits down at the desk in front of mine, facing us.

“Who's this?” he asks me.

“Dylan Dixon,” I say.

“Double D,” says Nick.

“Ah, yes,” says Dylan, sighing as if the burdens of the world are on his shoulders. “If you must know, it's Dylan Mason Dixon, so let the jokes continue. Great sense of humor my parents have.”

I laugh, but Nick doesn't. He's eyeing Dylan.

“So what are you guys up to?” Nick asks, gesturing at our open books, and Dylan instinctively closes his.

“It's okay,” I tell him.

“What?” Dylan asks.

“Nick knows,” I say. “He may be the only other living person in the world who does, but he knows everything.”

“Wait,” says Nick. “
This
is the bookstore Dylan who knows about this stuff? I thought you were talking about an adult!”

“He's—” I start.

But Dylan doesn't need me to speak for him. “I happen to be the future owner of one of the premiere paranormal bookstores in the entire world, one that you probably don't even know about though it exists under your very nose, and one that is going to provide the information that will solve Callie's dilemma.” His whisper is quiet, but authoritative.

“Whoa,” says Nick. “Pardon me, Encyclopedia Brown.”

Dylan huffs, but I can hear the softening in Nick's voice.

“Guys, I may have found something important,” I say,
interrupting. I turn back to the page I was on and I read the part about the rule of three to them aloud.

“Right,” says Dylan. “A triple possession means an elimination of the original soul. So we need to be really watchful around Eli.”