Veiled (2 page)

I know Amy worries about me still. I know I’m not the same person I was before it happened. It doesn’t help that Amy doesn’t know the truth about how my mother died. The truth about me. The truth about my family.

I need to keep it that way. I’ve seen what our ghostly afflictions can do to someone. I know that my grandmother, Pippa, saw dead people and could enter a realm called the Thin Veil, and that in time she was committed and eventually died alone because no one believed her. I know that Perry has been haunted since she was fifteen, that she was put on a cocktail of medications that did no good, that the world wanted to lock her up because it didn’t understand her. I know that my mother saw the truth—far too late.

And the truth killed her.

Even my brother-in-law comes from a lineage of fucked-upness. Dex was also plagued by ghosts from a young age, did a stint in a mental institution, and relied on medication to keep it all away. When he went off the meds—and had his infamous ghost-hunting show with Perry—things only got worse until he discovered his own brother was taken over by a demon and literally tried to take us all to Hell while we were in New York. Worst vacation ever.

Then there’s me. I’ve seen so much, been through so much, that even if I did admit to my best friend that my sister’s now defunct ghost-hunting show was totally true, that I’ve seen the world behind the curtain, I’ve seen exorcisms and monsters and the devil himself, I wouldn’t know where to begin nor how to make it all sound remotely believable.

So I let Amy think that I’m tired and on edge because I’m still grieving and not because my dreams keep getting worse and worse and I feel like each day is leading me down a dark path I might not be able to come back from.

“I’m fine,” I tell Amy, loudly, struck by the sudden need to convince myself of this as well. I quickly reach over and shut off the annoying poppy shit on the radio and flip to my favorite alternative station.

When Nine Inch Nails comes on, Amy makes a sound of disgust. “So now you think One Direction sucks?” She rolls her eyes, clearly not amused as we take the exit to downtown. “You really are turning into your sister, you know?”

In more ways than one
, I think to myself. But even though Amy chides my sudden change in music tastes and I’m becoming a bona fide 90’s grunge and metal lover even though I was born at the end of that decade, I’m not ashamed of it. I look up to Perry, more than she’ll probably ever know. Besides, seeing ghosts and demons just lends itself to listening to White Zombie and Slayer and Fantomas on repeat. One Direction and Selena Gomez are for the girls who don’t see dead people every fucking day.

Not that I was seeing dead people every day. I mean, maybe I do, but half the time you don’t really realize it unless they’re covered in blood, or maybe standing in a white dress in the middle of a road, like every cliché you can think of. Most of the time, the dead just kind of . . . blend in. They’re innocuous and usually harmless. Sure they can scare the pants off you but that’s usually the extent of their damage.

I gaze out the window as we roll through the Pearl District, watching the throngs of people on the sidewalks, everyone in shorts and tank-tops and billowy dresses, trying to beat the heat.

Then, for just a second, I see a flash of a familiar face as he gets off a bus. I straighten up and blink, trying to see better but he’s gone.

It couldn’t have been the guy from the wedding, the guy from my dreams, could it? God, I really am getting delusional.

When we finally find parking and I’m swallowed by my mecca that is Sephora, I’m feeling better. There’s nothing like sipping on syrupy Coca-Cola from the mall’s food court while perusing the white, backlit-beauty of a million makeup products. It’s like being in heaven, really, if angels wore all black and enough foundation to paint a house.

Amy and I literally spend an hour here, trying on everything and filling our baskets until our lips are rubbed raw from the makeup remover and our hands and wrists are rainbows of different swatches.

Then it happens.

I see him again.

Standing just beyond the doors to the store.

Staring right at me.

And for once, for once, I can see him clearly.

He’s tall, well over six feet. Broad shouldered and barrel-chested under a black leather jacket and black shirt, black jeans and black boots. He’s pale in a way that brings to mind a classical sculpture, or maybe it’s his face, which is exactly as my mind has tried to piece together.

His jaw is chiseled, his chin square and sharp enough to cut glass, covered by light scruff and complete with a chin dimple. His forehead is wide, expressive even, as he stares at me with piercing blue eyes under arched brows. His hair is chin length, slicked off his head, dark cinnamon. A ginger, just as I had remembered, though he’s probably the sexiest, most enthralling male specimen I’ve ever seen.

“Can I help you with anything?” a Sephora saleswoman with stripes for cheekbones steps in front of me, blocking my view.

I shoot her a dirty look, because I
never
need help in Sephora, and dart around her.

But he’s gone.

I hand the bewildered assistant my bucket and walk quickly through the store until I’m outside the doors, my head whipping around. People are going to and fro but the tall guy from my dreams,
from my fucking dreams
, is nowhere to be found.

Maybe he was never here at all.

Suddenly I’m hit with a queasy, stomach-churning feeling, my skin immediately clammy.

“Ada!” Amy calls from behind me but her words barely reach.

I can only just stand here, shoppers walking past me, bumping into me, wondering if I’m slowly going insane. Am I actually seeing this guy? Is it one of those cases where you dream about someone and then see them the next day? Is he really the guy from the wedding or was there even a Jay at all? Did I imagine everything?

I’m having trouble standing upright and tilt back just as I feel Amy’s hand on my shoulder, holding me up.

“Hey, are you all right?”

I nod, licking my parched lips as I slowly turn around to face her. Everything seems so swimmy, woozy, like I’m underwater.

“Got dizzy,” I manage to say. “It’s the Coke crash.”

She frowns at me. “Why are you out here?”

I blink a few times, trying to get my thoughts together. “Nothing. Thought I saw someone but it was nothing.” I take in a deep breath and give her a broad smile. “Okay, I think I’ve got some makeup waiting for me.”

We head back into the store.

CHAPTER TWO

My head is still swimming when Amy drops me off at home and I blame it on getting my period rather than the mysterious dream man I saw in town. I give her a wave with my Sephora bags and watch her drive off, standing next to the For Sale sign on our front lawn.

I hate that our house is for sale. It adds another level of uncertainty to my life, not knowing if I’m going to spend half my school year here, or in an apartment with a roommate I don’t know. I know the market is slow right now and my dad is asking for a bit much, maybe because deep down he doesn’t want to move either, but our neighbors sold their house in just a month, so who knows what will happen.

Speaking of neighbors, one of my new ones has spotted me as she exits her house, the driveway full of boxes. They only moved in yesterday, a retired couple, who had a group of brawny movers helping them and providing mucho eye candy as I watched through my bedroom window.

Normally I would march right into my house and feign ignorance, but with my mom gone someone has to step up as woman of the house.

“Hello,” the woman says to me, coming over to the fence and holding a pan of what looks like brownies. She’s gorgeous even though she has to be in her mid-sixties. Her hair is curly and pulled back, a stunning shade of grey, and her face is pale and freckled giving her a youthful appearance.

I walk over to her and smile, always feeling a bit awkward in these types of situations. You know, the ones that require being polite and normal.

“Hi,” I tell her. “You must be our new neighbors.”

Well. Duh. Good one, Ada.

“We are,” she says, smiling with perfect teeth. “I’m Dawn.” She offers her hand and I reach over the low fence to give it a light shake.

“Ada,” I tell her.

She nods over at the For Sale sign. “Though perhaps we won’t be your neighbors for long.”

I sigh. “Yeah, believe me I’d rather not move.”

“Lived here long?”

“My whole life,” I tell her, feeling my heart pinch. I swallow and attempt a shrug. “Though I am starting college next month so I guess it’s time for me to hit the road anyway. My older sister moved out and it’s just my dad and me.” I don’t know why I’m blabbing on to this woman but there’s something about her that makes me think she’d understand. I pause. “My mom died a few years ago and I think the house just holds too many memories.”

Her face softens. “I’m so sorry. That must be so tough. I lost my mother when I was younger . . . you never quite get over it.”

Great. But hell. At least she’s telling me the truth. Everyone else makes it sound like death is something you forget with time.

“Here,” she says, passing the brownies over the fence. “I’m not the best cook even after all these years, but you can bet I can bake the shit out of brownies.”

I can’t help but smile. I like her already. I take the pan, the Sephora bags sliding down my arms. “Thanks. These aren’t special brownies, are they?”

She laughs. “No, I’m sorry. But those are my specialty too. My husband and I moved from Washington so we’re used to being knee-deep in pot brownies on the regular.” She tilts her head as she looks at me and I feel like she’s really taking me in, seeing everything. “You should come over sometime. I mean, I know it’s probably the last thing a girl like you wants to do, hang out with a bunch of old geezers. But I promise you we’re fun. Do you like music?”

I frown. “Who doesn’t like music?”

She shrugs. “Weirdos.”

The perfect answer.

I’m about to tell her that would be great, though I’m not sure if I’d actually follow through with it or not, when an old beige Mercedes pulls up to their curb and Dawn turns her attention to it.

A tall man wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap comes out of the car and strolls toward us, holding a bouquet of flowers. I wonder if this is her husband.

“You’re early,” Dawn says to him.

“Your new house is easier to find than I thought,” the man says, speaking in a thick Cockney accent. “Lovely though. I was getting a bit tired of that dustbowl you were living in before.”

Okay, definitely not her husband. The man stops in front of me and I can almost feel his gaze beneath his sunglasses. He’s probably in his fifties, a craggy yet charismatic face, crooked smile, with red hair peeking out beneath the baseball cap. His nose is broad, looking like it’s been broken a few times, while freckles and pockmarks scar up his cheeks.

“Getting to know the neighbors already,” he comments to her. He takes his sunglasses off, sliding them in the front pocket of his mustard yellow shirt, and gives me a steady look. His eyes are hazel, nearly amber, the kind of eyes that you know have seen a lot, been through a lot.

“Of course,” Dawn says. She nods at me. “This is Ada. She lives here with her father.” She lowers her voice. “She lost her mother a few years ago.”

“What a shame,” the man says frowning. “Death doesn’t always discriminate, does it?” He offers his hand. “I’m Jacob. Family friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” I tell him, his hand nearly crushing mine.

The way he keeps his eyes on me is unnerving until he winks, breaking into a crooked smile. “It will be good for the Knightlys to have someone young next door, keep them breathing and all that.” He takes his hand back and looks to Dawn. “Where is the husband anyway, napping? You know you should be careful, he’s almost seventy. Wouldn’t want him to break his hip taking a shit or something.”

She rolls her eyes. “You are terrible.”

“That’s why even Hell didn’t want me,” he jokes smoothly.

“Well he’s already taken over the basement and turning it into a jam room. If he’s breaking anything it’s his back from hanging guitars all over the walls.” Dawn gives me an apologetic look. “I best be showing Jacob the grand tour. This man doesn’t know what patience is. Let me know how you like the brownies.”

“Will do,” I tell her, raising up the pan in a show of thanks.

“Come on Rusty,” Jacob says, putting his arm around Dawn’s shoulder and leading her to the house. “It’s been a long drive. Take me to the gin.”

I watch them disappear into the house before glancing down at the brownies. That whole exchange was kind of strange and there was definitely something odd about that redheaded fellow with the Michael Caine accent. I think I’ll give the brownies to Dex, just in case. He can handle poison better than anyone.

I head inside the house, my dad puttering around in the kitchen trying to make dinner. I feel a pang of guilt knowing I should have been at home helping him instead of out buying makeup I don’t need with money I don’t have.

He doesn’t even glance at the bags as I plop them on the counter. He stopped harassing me about spending money a long time ago. I think he figures I’m trying to shop my way out of grief just as he’s taken up gardening tenfold. Even though we’re trying to move, he spends most of the day out in the back garden. It looks so lush and extravagant now that you can’t even tell it was once the sight of a séance, a witch bottle filled with toenail clippings and hair and all the negative energy of the house buried there.

Then again, what backyard doesn’t have that? It could almost be a selling point.

“I met the neighbors,” I tell him, sliding the pan on the island. “Though I’m not sure if the brownies are poisoned or not, so proceed with caution.”

He glances at them briefly as he stoops to take a tray out of the oven, the scent of roasted vegetables wafting out in a cloud. “Oh. I met them earlier this morning.” He starts turning over the beets and carrots. “Interesting couple. Turns out the man used to be in a seventies rock group, though I can’t say I’ve ever heard one of their songs. Your sister would probably know. Or that husband of hers,” he mumbles under his breath.

“What band?”

“Hybrid? I can’t remember. Something that would induce a lot of drug use, I’m sure.” A silence falls between us, thick and uneasy. I know he’s thinking about Perry when she was younger. I know he’s thinking about me last year.

I clear my throat. “Well that’s good that they’re cool,” I tell him. “Need any help? What time are they coming over anyway?”

There’s a brief knock at the door before we hear it open. Dad sighs. “I suppose that’s them.”

“Hello?” Perry calls out from around the corner. She comes into the kitchen and drops a giant duffle bag on the floor that’s nearly the size of her.

“You’re here for a night, Perry,” my dad chides her, putting the vegetables back in the oven. “You’ve gotten just as bad as Ada at packing.”

“She wishes,” I mumble before going over to Perry and giving her a hug. I catch a whiff of cigarettes in her dark ponytail. “Ugh, have you taken up smoking?”

“No,” she says exasperated as she pulls back. “Guess who thought he could smoke one cigarette and not get re-addicted?”

“My ears are burning!” comes Dex’s voice from outside.

“No, that’s your fucking cancer stick that’s burning!” Perry yells right back. She looks back at me and shakes her head. “Asshole.”

“Language, please,” my father says, rolling his eyes before coming over and giving her a tight embrace. I’d just seen the two of them a few weeks ago when I went up to their place in a Seattle for a few nights, but my dad hasn’t seen them in at least a month. And while he can do without seeing Dex, I know he misses Perry dearly.

She’s looking good. Her weight fluctuates like most women’s, though her giant boobs are always constant. I definitely wasn’t blessed in that department. I may have inherited our mother’s blonde hair and long limbs but Perry got all the sultry Italian curves from our dad’s side. The only thing we really have in common are our sky blue eyes. Oh, and the whole seeing ghosts thing.

Which sucks.

“I’ve tried to get him onto E-cigarettes,” Perry says to dad.

Dex’s laugh comes loud and clear along with a waft of smoke, and I figure he’s on the front steps finishing his cigarette.

“You want him to vape?” I ask Perry, raising my brow. “You might as well as staple the word ‘shitdick’ to his forehead.”

“Ada,” my dad admonishes me.

Dex laughs again and the front door closes. He appears in the kitchen entryway, looking at Perry with raised brows. “You see? Only shitdicks vape. Your sister knows what’s up.”

“I always know what’s up,” I tell him dryly.

He shrugs, conceding, and nods at my father, tipping his newsboy cap at him. “Daniel.”

“Dex,” is his reply before he turns around to busy himself with more food.

“Can I help with anything?” Perry asks but our dad shoos us away.

“Go put your stuff away and relax,” he says, opening the fridge. “Dinner will be ready in a half hour.”

Dex scoops up Perry’s bag, his large bicep muscles flexing beneath the sleeve of his grey tee shirt. He grins at me, wagging his brows and I immediately make a noise of disgust, looking away.

Okay, here’s the truth about Declan “Dex” Foray. He bugs the absolute shit out of me, always has since he first waltzed into our lives all those years ago with his wannabe Robert Downey Jr. mustache and goatee and video camera. I thought he was here to exploit my sister, roping her into their YouTube channel as they investigated ghosts and the paranormal. Instead, he saved her. Changed her life in more ways than one. And I couldn’t be happier that he’s my brother-in-law now.

He also happens to be hot. I cringe when I find myself admitting it from time to time and I would
never
tell him or Perry that, lest his ego get even bigger than it is, but it’s true. He’s not exactly my type. I’m pretty tall and Dex is around 5’9”, but there’s still something about him that sets your heart aflutter sometimes. Maybe it’s because he’s ripped as shit, maybe it’s his expressive dark eyes, the way he carries himself with so much “I don’t give a shit” confidence. Or maybe it’s that in some ways he’s almost superhuman.

Could be anything, really.

But most of the time, he lives to annoy me, just like any brother would.

“Put your muscles away,” I scoff at him as he brushes past, moving toward the staircase.

“Don’t act like you don’t like it, little sister,” he calls over his shoulder, heading up the stairs.

“I think I liked it better when you called me Little Fifteen!” I yell after him. “Though I guess Little Eighteen doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

I step out into the hallway, about to head to the living room, when Perry intercepts me, putting her hand on my shoulder and squinting at me.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly.

“You think I’m offended because your husband is flexing for me?”

She frowns. “I’m serious. I hate to sound like a bitch, but you look awful.”

I shrug away from her hand and go into the living room, flopping onto the couch and pulling out my phone to busy myself with fashion bloggers on Instagram. “I haven’t been sleeping right.”

She sits down beside me and I can feel her stare deepening as she leans in closer. I give her a quick glance. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try and read my mind. We had a deal.”

She sits back, looking mildly embarrassed. “It doesn’t work like that,” she says in a clipped voice. “And you’re right, we did have a deal.”