Chapter 13: Rory - Entities to Lovers

“What does this one mean?” Ezra asks, brandishing the Nine of Swords at me.

“What do you think it means?” I implore.

He examines the card. The Rider-Waite illustration shows a figure sitting up in bed with their face buried in their hands and a wall of swords behind them. Ever since I explained exactly how I speak to spirits, Ezra’s been exponentially more intrigued by what I do. When he sauntered into my alcove after my last client, slouched in the chair, and started asking questions, I wasn’t sure where to begin. I started curt and told him outright how I read the cards. Then I realized he was willing to put some thought in first.

I shouldn’t be shocked the professor is down for a little test.

“It looks like waking up in the middle of the night and realizing you have no money because you spent it all on replica swords for your wall.” He ponders it. “I could see my brother having this issue in like ten years. Currently, he’s only got one sword. How’d I do?”

“I saw the sword,” I laugh. “And you’re not totally wrong. It’s a card of turmoil and the swords above them symbolize the weight of their worries and agony.”

“Charming.”

Ezra anxiously slides the card away from himself with a single, painted fingernail. He’s been on his best behavior all day, helping my mom around the store pro bono, grading tests or doing lesson plans in his free time. Between appointments, I watched him come and go, carrying boxes, plotting out acquisitions with my mom, and making organization suggestions for the shop. Hell, he convinced an old guy to buy a horrifying clown plate we had on display because he looked it up and discovered it was one of a kind. He even got a few customers to do walk-in readings with me. He’s a natural asset in the store.

Yet, I can only be so mad, because my mom rolled out of the store before closing time, took herself to a movie, and looked significantly less tired when she left. There was still a spring in her step as she called it a day.

It was a lighter appointment day today, overall, which may have been a blessing in disguise. We still don’t fully know how this curse works. We determined the distance Ezra can get from me before things start going horribly wrong is about fifty feet. He offered to pick up lunch for all three of us, and in the time he was across the street, I spilled my tea on myself, broke yet another nail, and almost lit my curtains on fire.

But we survived our first full business day of knowing we’re cursed. Now we’ve just got the tour. Andrea, one of our seasonal hires, was thrilled to take my shift. I close up shop and rise from the séance table.

“All right, let me get ready for our tour,” I tell Ezra.

I migrate to the dressing room and start to change. The weather took a turn from brisk to brutal once the sun went down, so I opt to keep my leggings on beneath my skirts. I shimmy my skirt up to my waist and begin to fasten the back. Over the past few years, I’ve become a master of lacing up my own corset. I may be besmirching Kitty O’Brien’s legacy by not going for full boning and period appropriate, but this works fine—and I’ll admit, it makes me feel sexy and seriously ups my confidence.

Usually it’s a simple process. Shirt off, regular bra off, corset on, lace her up. It’s no problem, and avoids a wardrobe malfunction, so long as nothing gets stuck. Which of course it does now.

The string lurches near a part of my back I cannot reach without dislocating my shoulder. I am entrapped by this damn corset. Aw, hell. I just love being semi-topless and tangled in knots in the dressing room. Not to mention, my mom is gone and Andrea already left for her tour, so the only option I have is…fuck.

I muster my bravery and finally poke my head out through the beaded curtain. Ezra’s dabbing gray face paint under his eyes in my alcove. He’s using the allegedly haunted mirror (sometimes I see strange amorphous shadows in it) to do his makeup.

“You know,” he starts when he realizes I’m there, “I think the head wound adds to the Frankenstein look.”

He’s still got the bandage from last night on, but he’s pushed his hair in front of it to cover it up as much as possible.

“You mean Frankenstein’s Monster?”

“You know, I did that on purpose.” He spins around and points at me. “I knew you’d be one of those people.”

“What? Smart? Correct?”

He stops and his breath catches in his throat. Sure, he can’t see all of me, but he can tell I am basically in a skirt and bustier corset. All bare shoulders and cleavage out for him to see. If we were actually Kitty and Royce, this would be grounds for a scandal—but Ezra himself is scandalized.

I like my body and always have. For the sake of reaching higher surfaces, I wouldn’t complain about an extra inch or two. I’ve always been petite, but curvy, with full hips and plenty of boobs to work with. My mom raised me to view nudity as not inherently sexual. It’s a body, we all have them. However, with the way Ezra looks back at me with a stone-cold expression and his throat tightens as he swallows and eyes me, it does feel sexual.

“Um, I…sorry,” he stutters.

“I need your help.”

“With?”

“Just come here,” I demand, holding the back of my corset together with one hand. One slip and it could get way more sexual.

Ezra fumbles to set down his makeup palette and follows me. His gaze is dark and stormy in the dimly lit dressing room, and he’s doing everything in his power to not look at my cleavage.

“There’s a knot in the back of my corset. Can you, uh…help me get it out?”

Thankfully, he shakes out of his trance and turns on the performance. He presses his hand to his chest. “Why, Kitty. Quite scandalous of you to ask.”

“You’re telling me Royce Montgomery the Fourth has not had his way with a corset before?” I ask in my accent. Breaking into the accent alleviates some of my nerves. Kitty is far more confident, sexy, and playful than I could ever be. I turn and show him the knotted corset. I’m exposing most of my back to him, bare skin he’s never seen before.

Ezra remains silent. I don’t have it in me to turn around and look at him again, but I feel him approach. It’s like when I connect with a spirit. Chills, anticipation, tingling in my hands, and fluttering in the pit of my stomach. It’s an excitement and fear each time, because I never know how it’s going to go. There’s always an implicit danger. I run the risk of gaining an attachment with a spirit that doesn’t want to leave my side.

Ezra’s not so different. Lately, I don’t know what I’m going to get. I don’t know if he’s going to be a pain in my ass and tell me the history of a medieval torture device, or if there’ll be a rare moment of honesty to his words. The problem is, I’m already sensing an attachment.

When his hands settle on the small of my back, it takes everything I have to not shudder or shiver at his touch.

“Dear lady, I might come across as a grievous rake, but I assure you, I’m a hopeless romantic at heart.”

“And what of Ezra Blackwell?”

Ezra slides his fingers under the bodice of the corset and searches for the part of the string that’s snagged. His touch is delicate, and I don’t even need to direct him. He finds a knot of tangled ribbon in the left side of the corset and carefully fiddles with it.

“Who?”

I break into a laugh and we drop our accents. The subtle press of his knuckles against my back as he fights with the knot makes my heart race, and he grunts softly as he toils with it.

“Come on.”

“Afraid he’s as unlucky in love as his spectral character,” he laments. He’s a mystery to me. It’s easy on one hand to imagine Ezra burying himself in books and hiding in library corners, going down his rabbit holes, with little time to date through his schooling. Though, I could just as easily see him using those dark corners for other things—reminding someone that this is a library and they’d have to stay quiet. Just like Royce Montgomery, he has a rakish demeanor to him. Someone who likes to cause trouble.

“I don’t buy that.”

Ezra’s fingertips skim my lower spine again, tugging at the knot one more time before the strings come loose.

“There we go,” he mutters. Then he does something I don’t expect.

He laces the corset. He carefully tightens each loop until the boning presses to my sides and fits me like a glove. He follows the signs of my body like a test he’s determined to ace. Every touch is exploratory and like a lure to some dark magic. Ezra Blackwell knows how to lace up a corset. And he probably knows how to unlace it, too.

I covertly watch him in the mirror. His stare is equal parts hungry and tender. His shoulders stiffen every time he catches a taste of my bare skin. The puffs of his breath are staggered, almost nervous, between my shoulders. The silence is more like a scream until he reaches the bottom of the corset.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” I ask, and my voice shakes. Thankfully, it’s cold as hell in here so I can blame anything that happens to my nipples on the temperature.

“Can’t a man have his secrets?” His laugh is a low rumble against the back of my neck.

“Sure, but lacing up corsets is an interesting one to keep,” I tell him.

“Maybe it’s a matter of knowing what I’m working with. Or being good with my hands.”

Oh.

Well, I think we need to pivot.

Ezra doesn’t pull away from my back right away when he ties the corset off. His touch sears heat through my skin, and when I gaze up in my mirror again, I catch his expression. Wistful, but tense with restraint. His eyes are a deep, dark brown in this light, dangerously inquisitive.

With my hair down, the curls drape to the center of my back, just inches from his fingertips. One of Ezra’s fingers loops around a ringlet. I imagine his dark nail polish hidden among the lock of hair and a shiver runs through my entire body. I clench my fists, nails digging into the palms of my hands to keep from moving.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m good now.”

But I am so not good.

Ezra exhales hard and steps away, rubbing the back of his neck as he retreats to his locker and fetches his coat. He slides it over his lithe shoulders, buttons his cuff links, and ties his ascot. I finish dressing, pulling on a thermal over the corset, and my blouse on top. I apply my lip stain and stage makeup in complete silence, but I feel Ezra’s eyes on me the whole time. Who needs to worry about keeping warm when this man is getting me so hot?

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

I worry about what the next few hours are going to look like. He ruffles his already wild hair and straightens up. I’m watching him put on a character. His demeanor shifts and his eyes take on a haunted but mischievous stare.

“I believe I’m ready for our evening haunt,” he says.

I’ve gone without my hair bird tonight, opting for a headscarf to keep my ears warm. Ezra removes his rings and slips on a pair of sleek leather gloves and activates his hand warmers before putting them in his jacket pockets. Thankfully, he does not use his mouth to put his gloves on tonight.

I follow Ezra outside to the curb. Vic is off tonight, so Harry’s at the wheel. He’s a kindly old man who likes to say “boo!” to all the little kids as they walk on, even though he’s the least scary guy in the world. He used to drive school buses but sought a calmer crowd later in life. I’m not sure Ezra and I will help with our bickering, but at least neither of us are into spitballs.

We approach the group of tourists gathering in front of the trolley. This time of year, we have guests donning costumes, too. Tonight we have a group of college girls in animal ears and bodycon suits, an extremely convincing Doc Brown, and a very tiny Ghostface. Ezra captures my wrist, and the pad of his leather-gloved thumb brushes the inside of my wrist—cool, intimate, and intentional.

“Let’s give them a good show, huh?” he says. The twinkle in his eyes is lively and warm, like he’s excited to take on this adventure with me. I look at where he holds my wrist. Can he feel my pulse jump through his glove? Does he know I’m still thinking about his delicate fingers on the small of my back? Or that I’m wondering what other kinds of costumes he knows how to secure…or disrobe?

For the first time, I think of our little competition as fun and a new challenge I enjoy, rather than loathe. We bring out the best and worst in each other—and maybe that’ll be entertaining to the guests.

I give a confident nod, smiling. “The best show.”

He smiles back and clears his throat before turning to the tourists.

“Greetings, unfortunate mortals!” Ezra greets, offering a dramatic bow to the crowd. “We are ready to board our hearse for the evening, but we’ve a few housekeeping items to cover. We’ll be running down the list here and taking attendance. We don’t want to risk any souls getting left behind. Isn’t that right, Kitty?”

“Absolutely. We can’t offer refunds to even the most wayward of spirits.”

“Yes, yes. Customer service inquiries do not count as unfinished business at Ye Olde Spirit Tours.” I bite my lip to keep my smile at bay, but Ezra catches me anyway. “Ah, I see you liked that one, Ms. O’Brien. Fear not, I have more where that came from.”

The guests board the trolley. When we’ve accounted for everybody, Ezra stops in front of the trolley entrance and holds his hand out for me. I hesitate before I take it, collecting my skirts. His grip is strong and steady, like he’s fully committed to helping me. Just a few nights ago, he’d stormed onto the trolley with little regard to where the hell I was.

Something’s changing.

I let go of his hand, and my fingers still tingle inside my own warm glove. I give the signal to Harry once Ezra’s loaded on safely. The second he punches the engine, I flip the lights. The sconces on the sides of the trolley ignite and the eerie ambient music bursts over the speakers. I love the history aspect of this job dearly, walking through my favorite places, telling stories, but I think it’s always the beginning of the tour that lights me up the most. It’s time travel, in a way. We’re no longer two twenty-somethings with rent to pay and emails to check. We’re the characters we create, and we rule this creepy bubble we’ve trapped the guests in for the next hour and a half.

Kitty makes me feel confident and brave in ways I struggle with as Rory. Both she and Royce are ostentatious and a little much, but tonight, there are notes of Rory and Ezra about to come out in our performance. The prospect surprisingly excites me.

Ezra and I each take a microphone, and this time, with a gentle bow, he lets me start. So I do.

“Good evening, my dearest spirits, specters, and souls—I’d like to welcome you upon a terrifying journey through the haunted streets of Boston. Over the next hour and a half, you will see the darkest side of the city, including haunted hotels, cemeteries, and sites of horrific murders. We’ll be riding aboard the Grisly Fate this evening, and I am your host, Katherine—but you can call me Kitty, since we’re all friends here—O’Brien, but I am not alone. Tonight, you have two spectacular ghost hosts for your tour.”

Ezra clears his throat into the mic. “Yes, yes, Ms. O’Brien is quite right. The adventure we’re taking you on is so haunting you’ll need two local ghosts to guide you through safely. My name is Royce Montgomery and—”

“The Fourth!” I interrupt. “That part’s very important.”

“She’s right, yes. I come from a long line of other Royce Montgomerys, and thankfully, none of them met an end as tragic as mine.”

“I don’t believe I know the story,” I goad him as Harry drives to our first stop. I’m a little curious what kind of chaotic backstory Ezra’s cooked up for his ghostly persona. We hit a light, so we’ll need to stall and keep the show going. “Regale me with it, will you?”

“Well,” Ezra begins. He leans dramatically against the pole and presses his hand to his heart. His lashes flutter wistfully. I don’t think it’s fair any man has eyelashes so effortlessly lush. “I was madly in love with the most beautiful woman in New England.”

“And was she in love with you, too? Or was this an affair better saved for your secret diary?”

This gets a rousing laugh out of the guests.

“I may never know. We went for a stroll along the harbor, where I planned to express my affections for her, ask for her hand in marriage, when her glove was gusted away into the water.” His voice is a yearning wail and he gives a little fluttering motion with his free hand. “I dove in to help her fetch it—”

“You jumped right in?”

He nods. “I sure did.”

“What time of year?”

“Winter, of course. I’m so brave.”

“So, I suppose that’s how you died.”

“No, actually!” he exclaims. “I was struck by a passing boat. Strange, though. She didn’t try to help me.”

I try to hide my smile. “I think you may have your answer.”

“So, I met a tragically wet grave. I will spend my whole afterlife waterlogged. I mostly haunt the Legal Seafood by the wharf. I’m a local hire.” The trolley has nearly arrived in front of the Old North Church. “Anyway, how did you die?”

“Tuberculosis,” I answer immediately.

He frowns. “That’s not very original.”

“Mr. Montgomery, we simply don’t get to choose our ends in this world. Would you have chosen to be hit by a boat?”

“Hmm,” he coos. “I suppose not. Nevertheless, if we can direct your attention to the right here as we’re pulling up to an incredibly important location in American history. On the eve of April 18, 1775, Robert Newman—the church’s sexton—hung two lanterns from the church’s steeple to signal to Paul Revere the British were coming. Of course, we all know the story of Paul Revere’s ride as told by Longfellow’s poem, but did you know it’s riddled with inaccuracies?”

“Such as?” I engage him.

“Well, for starters, there were more riders than just our fellow Paul, you see. There were several dozen riders that night, but the main ones we know of were William Dawes and Samuel Prescott. It’s also not likely Revere shouted ‘The British are coming!’ all over the state. He more likely whispered ‘The Regulars are on the move.’ ”

“Sounds like retail gossip!” I chirp. “You tell it like you were there yourself. Do you remember it, Royce?”

Ezra gasps and laughs. “Oh, Kitty. You minx. I’m not that old, my dear. I was a wee lad when it happened, so no, I don’t remember it. The church itself is a stunning work of architecture, and I would highly recommend returning during daytime hours to take a tour. But what lies below…” Ezra looks to me with wide eyes and a dramatic nod. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

He’s playing off me so well. He’s making this a show between us. A partnership. This is a wildly different Ezra than I knew days ago. If I didn’t know any better, I’d also say he was having fun himself. His wild smile is beaming and uninhibited. This—happy, entertaining, with his damn smudged eyeliner—is his best look by far.

“Something terrifying, I say,” I pick up. “Did you all know over one thousand corpses lie beneath the Old North Church in the crypts? Surely some of them are wandering about.”

“Is that where you’re from?” he inquires.

“No,” I tell him. “I’m located in the Granary Burying Ground. With Paul Revere himself! I shall tell him you say hello.”

“Thank you,” Ezra gasps, pressing a hand to his heart. “Big fan.”

“Before we get too ahead of ourselves,” I say, returning to the tour, “the Old North Church has haunts of its own. There have been sightings of translucent figures atop the steeple. As we slow to a brief halt, take a look and we encourage you to photograph our haunted stops. You never know what will show up on camera.”

Ezra glances across the trolley at me with a mischievous grin, and I can’t help but smile back. “We could have a natural William Mumler amongst us.”

There’s something stirring inside me, and it might be that I’m finding myself so charmed by this man who I swore I couldn’t stand. We’re a duo that should only create discord, but instead…I think there could be magic here.

I’m grateful when Harry jerks the trolley forward and we’re off to our next location.