Chapter 5: Rory - Entities to Lovers

My alarm doesn’t go off.

Instead, I wake when my phone rings and my mom’s contact photo—a selfie of us in Salem—lights up the screen.

That’s when I catch the time.

Ten fifteen.

Ye Olde Spirit Shop doesn’t open until eleven, and my walk is short, but I’m always there early. While last night was a study in patience, subterfuge, and restraint, I didn’t think it tired me out bad enough I’d have to sleep for so long. Ten fifteen…that’s practically a coma.

Someone might need a medium to get in touch with me at this point.

Mornings are a ritual under my roof. I wake up and usually begin with a short yoga routine to get the blood flowing. I do a single tarot flip to determine the energy of the day and then conquer my daily online crossword before heading to work.

Today, though, I will not have time for any meditation, and I don’t need a tarot card to tell me we’re off to a bad start here.

I tumble out of bed like a sad beached whale, realizing too late one of my feet is knotted in the top sheet. Once I’m free, I dash to the closet in pursuit of clothing. I grab a skirt and a cardigan with little moons on it. I hardly even get my tights halfway up my thighs when I hear a devastating riiiiip along the inside of my leg.

“Fuck,” I mutter. Not only do I not have the time for this shit, but these are my favorite tights. Sheer black with tiny skulls embroidered on them. Now the skull heads are cracked right open like the apothecary bottle from last night.

Memories of the fateful tour flood into my brain. We broke a historical artifact. Even worse, we made something mad. I came home in a blur, tripping over a few bricks en route, and I potentially scratched my cornea trying to remove my mascara. I did an evening meditation when I got home, burned a cleansing candle, all in hopes it’d shake the negative energy and keep Temperance away.

Thankfully, it did let my brain turn off enough to sleep.

I tried to tell Ezra what the house said to me, but considering he was so confident the bottle wasn’t valuable, I knew he’d lecture me on ancient glassblowing or some shit instead of being helpful. He’s never outright doubted my medium abilities, but telling anyone I heard a threatening ghost in my head is always easier said than done.

My mom calls again. I answer in a tizzy. “Hi, I’m coming.”

“Oh, good,” she chirps. “You are alive.”

“Barely, but I’m working on it.” I shuck off my deceased tights, hunt for the first pair of jeans I can find, and stick to the cute cardigan. I need something to redeem this morning.

“Good. No rush, of course. I just thought it was odd you weren’t here yet.”

It is odd. If there was some precarious astrological transit happening, I’d have it marked and scheduled around it or taken extra precautions. I schedule any admin work for my readings to avoid retrogrades. I start new projects or habits during new moons. All of this feels like an unexpected mess I would have worked around.

Fear bubbles in my stomach.

I’ll show you.

Temperance’s words are a sinister menace in my head, not unlike Mara’s. It doesn’t feel like an attachment. Those typically feel like an out-of-body experience. I hope hearing Temperance’s words repeatedly is just my anxiety talking. I don’t have any proof I’ve taken anything home with me.

If Temperance Talbot wanted us to pay for what we’d done, I bet she’d do more than rip my tights.

“I’ll be there soon,” I say and hang up.

As I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, the crystals resting on the top bookshelf change formation.

“Luna,” I scold. “I had those there for a reason.”

I spent my whole life living above the store, but postcollege, it felt right to try and live on my own. It gave me some freedom, and also allowed my mom to turn my bedroom into extra storage. Now it’s occupied by larger antiques and oddities like a questionable dentist chair, a rare stuffed condor, and a safe full of…well, honestly I’m a little afraid to ask what’s inside, but it’s surrounded by salt, so everything should be fine.

But Boston is no cheap date, and I’m not making bank, that’s for sure. It can also be dicey as a medium to find a place to live. The city is overrun with spirits and most apartments, whether the tenants know it or not, are haunted. I needed quiet and a reprieve from being so accessible to everything beyond the mortal plane.

This apartment came to me like kismet. A laughably cheap studio nobody wanted to rent because the broker disclosed it was haunted, but, as I discovered, by a ghost who didn’t speak at all. Luna—a name I gave her after she constantly toyed with my moonstones—is quiet as a mouse, and I’ve never been able to grasp exactly who or what she is. She has her peculiarities, just like I do. She’s often organizing things, like my crystals, or tending to the plants. Sometimes, she tries to chime in on what I should wear, pushing earrings into my sight line or moving a scarf around until I notice.

Her presence is calming, and truthfully, I don’t like being alone.

The crystals halt.

“Thank you,” I say. “You can rotate them tomorrow. The citrine will need sunlight next!”

Luna jingles my constellation suncatcher near the window as if to say Copy that.

While packing up lunch, I discover my bananas are bad, and somehow my meal-prepped quinoa got frostbitten in the fridge. Hell, asking the ancient freezer to even make ice is a task. How did the fridge work overtime here?

The only option is to bang my head against the appliance.

No one likes inconvenience, but I handle it worse than most. So few things are within my control. I can’t control the way people perceive me, or what fate has in store. I can’t control what spirits find me or try to speak with me. For those things, I turn to the cards and readings. I try to trust the universe in those cases.

For everything else, I take an iron grip. I like my routines. I like my spaces to be as safe and comfortable as possible. When days start off like this, I feel like I’ve lost all control.

With lunch out of commission, I lace my boots and scuttle down the building’s narrow hallway. All’s going well until my boot flies out from under me and I slip all the way down the bottom flight of stairs and into a patch of damp carpet. I add my own ass to the list of things I’ve broken lately.

I text my mom to make sure she’s got some tea brewing in the storage room because I’m sure as hell going to need it.

My apartment is in Boston’s North End, the most delicious-smelling place in the city. It’s a neighborhood of narrow streets, Italian markets, and enough incredible restaurants to give anyone decision paralysis. At this time of day, the chilly autumn breeze smells like simmering garlic, fresh-baked bread, and sweet basil as chefs prep their ingredients for the day.

I barely make it out of the area when my first encounter of the day happens. It’s hard to stroll around this city without encountering some kind of wayward spirit. Some are more persistent than others, and I suppose I can’t blame them. I understand loneliness, and feeling like no one ever sees you. Sometimes I want to yell about it, too. Those are the spirits I’m happy to help and interact with.

HELLO. HI. YOU CAN SEE ME. PLEASE, M’LADY!

Because I am a professional and I refuse to go viral for being the weird lady talking to herself about unfinished business on the street, I pull out my headphones. When I’m out and about, the best thing I can do is make it look like I’m taking a phone call when I speak to the spirits.

“Yes, I can hear you. What do you need?”

It lowers its volume.

What are you holding?

Spirits, especially old ones, are perpetually confounded by modern technology. As a medium, I can confirm that things like chronically online internet jokes and McDonald’s Sprite would kill a colonial person.

“It’s better if I don’t tell you,” I say. “What do you need?”

The Custom House.

“Oh, technically it’s that way, but I think it’ll be a little different than you remember.”

I’d tell the spirit it’s a Marriott now, but I don’t think that would help either. I can’t imagine someone from his day comprehending chain hotels. He would see a tap-to-enter room key and keel over.

Oh. There’s a long, still pause. Thank you, m’lady.

In a blink, the spirit evaporates around me, and I’m free to finish my already rushed walk to the store. I arrive at Ye Olde Spirit Shop just before my mom flips our The Mortician Is In sign in the window and we’re open for business.

“You made it,” she says as I strip my jacket off. She’s already got incense burning. Freshly brewed chai steams from her mug.

“It’s been a rough morning,” I groan, pouring myself a cup.

“Surely it’s not because I forced you to work with Ezra.”

She’s clearly joking, but still a shiver runs up my spine. I wonder if anyone at Talbot House called my mom this morning to report something out of place, or to say they knew something happened. Or the energy in there is so rancid and treacherous they had to close because of what we’d unleashed. It’s not like I can get fired, but I’m an only daughter, so disappointing my mother is certifiably worse.

All because Ezra couldn’t watch where he was going.

For now, I play it cool and act like nothing happened. “I can handle him, but I’m not eager to do it again.”

“Of course. Ever since he started getting more rave reviews on Tripadvisor—”

“And Yelp.”

“—you’re incapable of admitting when he does anything well.”

Before Ezra, every day at Ye Olde Spirit Shop was manageable and predictable. I knew we’d get one to two customers who were confused about the store, some regulars stopping by for incense or crystals, and at least a handful of people taking pictures for social media (which is fine as long as they tag us). I could rest assured this space was a sanctuary made just for people like us. Now? Ezra’s come through like a wrecking ball I never see coming.

“Yes, that’s the point of having a nemesis.”

My mom presses her fingers to her temples. “Aurora, your Scorpio is showing. I think if you spent some time with him, you might discover he’s actually sweet. I am sure you could talk for hours about your shared interests.”

I scoff. “Sure, but how many ‘well, actually’ comments am I going to have to endure until we get there?”

She raises her hands in surrender. “That is not my burden to carry.”

“Whatever,” I say. “I have to prep for my first appointment.”

Now that I’ve made it through the morning from hell, I can focus on work.

Surely, hoping for a smooth workday isn’t asking for too much.

—

* * *

I was asking for too much.

I realize this as my customer sits at my séance table and bursts into tears. She is the third one to do so.

“You were supposed to tell me how to get him back!” the girl sobs. She was a walk-in tarot reading. I could tell she may not have been in a place to hear hard truths, but she insisted I be brutally honest with her anyway.

If I were a therapist or a friend, I’d tell her hooking up with her toxic high school flame on a trip home this weekend is not a good idea; it’s never a good idea. Being a medium comes with a certain touch of emotion and I’m often moved by the connections I help people make. In fact, it’s why I love what I do so much. But sometimes, the cards break hearts.

“Megan, I am reading you and your current energies. I can’t compel someone to do something. What I am telling you,” I say, gesturing to the Three of Swords in front of us, “is you can grow from this heartbreak. If Troy is the source of this, you need to focus on yourself to resolve how you go forward. This card tells me falling back into old patterns may not help you.”

Megan wails and another customer jumps. I’m sure they think I’m telling her she’s about to die or something, and before they’re next, they skitter out of the store. My mom glares across the shop at me. I keep scaring customers away and I have already gained two negative reviews online today because my readings have gone completely haywire. Usually I soften the blow and spin even the most daunting cards into something positive. Today, every attempt to soothe the universe’s messages has failed.

“I don’t want my energies. I want Troy’s energies…and other things.”

“…Right.”

Megan wipes her eyes and fishes her phone from her bag. “I’m texting him.”

I don’t get to finish before she rushes out the door, typing furiously. I flip her final card. It’s the Queen of Wands, which I think is a great card, but I don’t believe Megan wants to hear anything encouraging her to be an independent woman today.

“This is why I make people pay up front,” I sigh.

I make my way into the now empty store and tug at my curls. I avoided going outdoors, so at the very least, a bird didn’t shit on me. Megan was my last appointment of the day and I’m not working a tour tonight. Harm reduction might be the best game plan.

“You made three people cry today, you know that?” my mom asks.

“Sure do. Everything I touch has turned to shit today.”

The keys above the door clatter. As if today couldn’t get any worse…

“Aw, well, at least you can see the shit coming, can’t you, Madame Leota?” Ezra says, shaking the rain from his unkempt hair. He’s clearly come from campus, sporting a pair of dark brown pants and a white button-down with a simple patterned tie loosened at his throat. He sheds his jacket to reveal an obvious brown coffee stain at the center of his shirt, which he’s trying to hide with his vest. It’s not hiding anything.

I only see glimpses of Ezra outside of his costume, and I’ve found there’s a certain formality he carries with him on and off duty. I never see him in ripped jeans or T-shirts. It’s always some kind of oxford or chambray shirt, spiced up with an interesting vest or tie and always well tailored. His shirtsleeves are usually rolled up, exposing toned, tattooed forearms and thin leather bracelets around each wrist.

The tattoo on his right inner forearm is a black and gray guillotine that should look gruesome, but instead it’s more like a preserved artifact. On the back of his other arm, he has an intriguing lighthouse covered in a mysterious fog jumping off his skin. I’m sure there’s an academic lecture behind all of them, but I’m not that much of a glutton for punishment.

I admire the art. That’s all. I just like art.

“I already told you,” I say. “I’m not that kind of psychic. If I was, I might have told you to wear a darker color today.”

I used to think I got premonitions, but turns out that was anxiety and what my therapist called “catastrophizing.” But Ezra doesn’t know that, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care.

He grimaces and it highlights an angry red cut along his jaw, presumably from shaving. That’s not even to mention the dark eye circles, pale skin, and grumbling irritation in his expression. At least if my day is hellish, Ezra’s suffering with me. I’ll let him win that one.

“Or that your razor’s too dull,” I add.

Ezra presses the back of his hand to his forehead and slips into his tour accent. “I’ve been nearly beheaded, Ms. O’Brien. And you could have saved me? The horror.”

Instead of picking a side, my mother groans and returns to checking emails on her laptop.

He meanders through the display cases, peering into them to examine any new items, but quickly diverts when Clementine’s rocking chair creaks. Ezra bends down in front of her, where she’s holding a single coin.

“No way,” he gasps, raising it to one of the lamps. “Clementine, you shouldn’t have!”

“Have enough to buy a gumball now?” I inquire. Truthfully, I’m angry. Clementine is my friend. I don’t understand why she likes Ezra so much that she gives him little gifts, too. Ezra shouldn’t get little treats.

“Oh, no, I could buy the gumball factory with this,” Ezra laughs. He brings the coin to my mom and lets her assess it, too. “Well, maybe not the factory. This is a 1787 Fugio cent. It might have been one of the first coins circulated in the United States, designed by Ben Franklin himself. It’s rare and can go for a couple grand if it’s in good shape.”

My mom slides her reading glasses down. “This is in decent condition. Look at that. You have this one yet?”

Ezra shakes his head. He leans on the podium with me, his arm brushing mine. I can’t tell if he means to be this close, but I wish he weren’t. It’s stirring things in me I try so hard to keep still. I loathe how physically into this annoying man I am. His biceps presses against my cardigan. His clothing smells like crisp rain and old book pages. His brown irises are black hole dark in this light. Tempting, like I could get sucked in and never stop falling.

“Nice find, Clementine!” my mom says to her, like she’s a puppy who just learned to sit. “If you’re on a roll, can you find my pen? The green one I like.”

Ezra chuckles and pulls himself off the counter, wandering into the dressing room. His presence, however, leaves behind a tingling spread of heat on my shoulder where we touched.

Moments later, my mom gasps.

“You’re shitting me,” she mutters. She squints at something on the screen.

“What is it?”

“You remember that boy who used to come in here all the time?”

“The one who had the weird thing with the lizards?”

“No,” she laughs. “Everett Hargrove’s son. Tall, glasses, dark hair, a little older than you—really sweet kid.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, “Hayden.”

My mom turns the screen to me.

Hayden and his dad used to come into the store years ago. His dad—a famous horror writer—loved supporting other authors in the community and brought Hayden to some of the events we’d host. They were exactly the kind of curious and accepting people we hope find their way into the store. One time, Hayden asked for a thirty-minute tarot reading when he was a teenager—before I was even working as a reader—and it turned into an hour and a half of me explaining to him what all the cards meant, simply because he thought it was fascinating.

I listened to his podcast in college, and try to keep up with his paranormal investigation show, The Out There, which he hosts with his plucky, longtime girlfriend, Hallie. But I don’t need to be a religious watcher to know their fan base is…rabid, kindly put.

So, the email in question makes my eyes bug out of my head.

Hi Delia,
You may not remember me, but I used to come into Ye Olde Spirit Shop with my dad all the time and it was one of my favorite places in the city. Hallie and I are spending Halloween in Boston, and we’d love to film part of an episode of The Out There that day. I don’t know your policy on filming, and I’m positive that’s an incredibly busy day, but we can’t think of any better place to spend the spookiest day of the year. I’ve looped in one of our producers to help handle all the logistics with you guys, if you are interested.
We would also love to work with your daughter, Rory, and have her as our medium on hand during the filming. I know this is short notice, but I would really love to feature a small local business from my hometown and you two have been such an amazing cornerstone in the Boston paranormal community.
Please let us know if you have any questions!
H&H

“They want to come here,” I say.

“They want to come here,” my mom replies, shoving her glasses off her face. “They want to work with you.”

No one could ever doubt I’m Delia’s daughter. We share the same heart-shaped face, wiry curls, and thrill for the unknown. My mom raised me within a radius but always allowed me to explore the perimeters. She encouraged me to learn skills and ways of life that let me expand my mind. But sometimes I think my mom thinks I’m so much greater than I really am.

And I know what usually follows great opportunities…

You will never be enough, Mara hisses in my head.

“I…I mean, I bet they can find a better medium,” I stammer.

“That’s not what they’re asking.”

“I know, but—”

Failure is inevitable, she shouts this time. You’ll humiliate yourself.

“Baby girl,” my mom says, cupping my cheeks across the counter. “They want you. Just think of what a great experience this is. You’ll have so many more customers after this.”

Neither of us can deny how massive an opportunity it is. The Out There is huge. A couple million subscribers accumulated after just two seasons, and their fans will go to any place they see Hayden and Hallie pop up. If I am the featured medium on the episode, I’ll undoubtedly have new customers flooding in after the episode airs. Could I use the new traffic? Absolutely. The store could also use a boost. It’d help us buy more unique inventory, allow my mom to make those upgrades to our electrical wiring, or let us bring on another permanent employee or two.

I ignore Mara’s memory and clear my throat. “I…I’ll do it.”

My mom sighs and kisses my forehead. “You’re going to be fantastic.”

Mara whispers a cruel No, you won’t in the back of my brain, drowning my mom out. I offer an agreeable nod anyway.

My mom claps eagerly. “Okay, I’m going to coordinate some details with them, and then we’ll start planning!”

She disappears into the back storage room.

The sun’s gone down, and a group of tourists gather outside the shop, ready for Ezra to take them on an evening haunt. The dressing room curtain rustles and Ezra steps back into the store’s main floor. He’s shed his coffee-stained oxford for the same black button-down as last night—the one with the coffin-shaped buttons. His brocade jacket fits him like a glove, and the fresh eyeliner makes his dark eyes pop. He’s dabbed gray stage makeup onto the hollows of his cheeks, cutting sharp shadows into his face.

Ezra cocks his head at me, eyes locked, as he slips a black leather glove over his fingers. He clamps his teeth down on the heel of the glove and tugs it all the way onto his hand—quick and fluid. Full precision and control. It’s so strangely aggressive and sexy, and I won’t lie: I’m mad about it. What the hell is his problem?

Note to self: Tell Mom to ban gloves from the dress code.

“Off I go into the night,” he laments with a shiver.

“Try not to break anything,” I say to him, once my mom’s out of earshot.

He tilts his head ever so slightly and cracks a smile. The slant of one of his canine teeth makes it look fang-like, dangerous and pointed. “Should be no issue. I don’t have you to worry about this time.”

He leaves with a theatrical bow. I pack up my things and blow out the candle my mom’s left lit. The last thing we need on a day like this is to light anything on fire. As the smoke billows from the top of the wick, something cracks behind me. I turn—and the deer antlers hanging above the doorway fall from the wall directly toward me.

Somehow I dodge in time, the piece whacking my shoulder before crashing to the ground. Thankfully, there’s no damage to other items in the store—just this ugly set of antlers my mom had bolted to the wall.

Bolted.

I gape at the empty space on the wall. The damask wallpaper beneath isn’t as sun faded, but what I do notice is the heavy-duty mounting my mom used to secure it. Sure, I blew out the candle, but I did not Big Bad Wolf these antlers. There’s no good reason for it to fall with no warning. And hell, thank god it didn’t fall on someone like Ezra. The workers’ comp suit he’d unleash would be—

Ezra.

Memories of the day flash behind my eyes—missed alarm, falling down the stairs, terrible readings, antlers. Yet, nothing bad happened when Ezra was around. And something good happened when he was.

I’m struck by a sign from the universe. It’s a feeling like spirits standing on my shoulders weighing me down. Suspense crawls up my spine and I don’t know if it’s real or my own imagination, but I hear the same thing I did last night. It’s a deep female voice, mocking with a threat of vengeance in each word.

I’ll show you.

No…there’s no way.

I slip out my phone and pull up Ezra’s number.

RORY (6:59 PM): Meet me at the Thorny Rose after your tour. It’s urgent.