Chapter 14: Ezra - Entities to Lovers

Something about returning to Talbot House feels like walking into a test I didn’t study for.

Or one where I’ve crammed all night, done all the study guides, and I still don’t know the answers. But like hell, I am going to try.

The trolley’s stuck behind a truck backing out of a space it can’t fit into on an already narrow street, so I volunteered to make sure Talbot House was all set up since we’ll be running behind schedule. As I walk away, Rory finishes a story about George Parkman, a local who was famously chopped into pieces.

“It was the first time forensic dentistry was used to convict a murderer!” she jabbers. “If that’s not a reason to keep up on your teeth cleanings, I don’t know what is. You never know when you’ll get murdered!”

I can’t look at her outfit without thinking of that goddamn corset. She might be covered in a Victorian blouse now, but I’m never going to stop thinking about the small triangle of pale skin at the center of her back, the little sounds she made as I tightened the corset around her body, how soft a single lock of her hair felt wound around my finger.

I’ve been attracted to Rory since the moment I met her. Every now and then, I’m overcome with these dashes of lust as she does something charming, or looks particularly stunning one day, but she usually cuts it all down with a sharp tongue and thorny attitude before I even get close. But now? I can’t get away from her. Literally.

I am cursed.

Because I think I’m starting to like Rory Woods.

Two nights ago, I was too blinded by rivalry and the glutton for punishment in me wanted to get under Rory’s skin, but tonight, I saw her perform. And hell, she’s so good. Her accent is flawless, her facts are down to a science, and now that I know she’s regularly approached by spirits, I’ve been watching her carefully to see how she does while on duty. I’ve caught her eyes drifting to the side here and there and wondered who she’s seeing. A man from the Revolution? A murdered gangster? One of the people we talked about on our tour?

I’ll have to ask her later.

The fact that I want to is a revision to our history.

I step inside Talbot House. It’s empty and creaky, and I keep in mind what Rory said the other night. It’s a place full of strange energies, but it doesn’t speak to her. Not until the other night. I don’t feel anything, other than the exhilarating rush of being in a place touched by so many decades of time.

“Hey, Temperance,” I call into the foyer, wiping off my boots. “Back again. If you want to lift this pain-in-the-ass curse anytime, that’d be great.”

There’s got to be something we’re missing, though. This curse can’t be as simple as “Stick together.” It’s a funny joke, but if Temperance hissed I’ll show you in Rory’s ear, there must be something to show. Perhaps it’s proving we can work together, but where’s the threshold?

I swing the parlor doors open. So far, Rory’s been the one taking the reins on this mystery. I want to do something for myself, too. If we’re going to best Temperance, we have to know her. I listen carefully as the autumn wind sways the house and the sconces buzz. But it’s otherwise silent. Rory said she sees spirits as shimmers or blurs in her vision, so I try to spot those, too.

As it turns out, shocking no one, I am not a medium who can see and speak to ghosts.

Damn.

I retreat for the door to greet the guests and pass by the display panels in the foyer. I did copious research on all the haunted stops when I started working tours, but the unfortunate part of being a woman in that age is so much of what Temperance did and believed was written off as foolishness or delusion. It leads to historical documents melted down to hearsay and rumors. It leads to “madwomen” sent to the seaside to cure their “maladies.” Or worse.

There are large placards with basic information at each station, things like birth date, death date, a brief bio. There’s an eerie portrait hanging inside the case. Temperance Talbot was a strikingly beautiful woman. Intense dark eyes and a slanted smile when maybe she should have kept a straight face. Her red waves are swept in a bun at the top of her head in this painting and a scorpion hairpin keeps loose strands back. Something about her reminds me of another tenacious and indomitable woman I know…

When I read through the histories inside Talbot House for the first time, I focused on the text. Clearly, I did not focus enough on the pictures. This time, I lock on to a photo of Temperance Talbot later in life.

Talbot pictured with her prized grimoire and séance table, which can be found inside the parlor.

A grimoire.

It’s a leather-bound journal with a carving of two cups pouring water on the front. I recognize the symbology instantly from Rory’s tarot lesson earlier. The Temperance card features an angel pouring water between two cups. She explained to me with frustration in her voice that Temperance is supposed to be a card of balance, of moderation, and it represents a “middle path.” This curse, however, seems like the opposite of moderation. It’s fucking ridiculous.

So much of what we know about Temperance Talbot comes from letters and salty diary entries she wrote herself. Of course someone like her would have a book of spells.

I might not be psychic like Rory, but I did grow up with a keen fascination for strange history. I’ve delved down many rabbit holes about ancient rituals and unexplained historical events. If Temperance was putting hexes on the people who wronged her back then, she must be using the same spells now, considering she’s…well…dead.

Rory’s heels click up the stairs and I rush to open the front doors for her.

“Come right inside!” she says. Rory’s cheeks are wind bitten and her skin’s pale, making her dark lipstick look midnight black. Our eyes lock and I signal that I need to talk to her.

“Please funnel into the parlor and gather ’round the séance table in the middle. And don’t touch anything!” she shouts. “It’s all cursed!”

Ha, literally.

As she guides the guests into the parlor, I seize Rory’s sleeve and tug her toward me. She stumbles and lets out a yelp, her hand pressing against my midsection to catch herself. Her perfume is sharp with bites of floral and the way her mouth falls open just slightly as we collide sends a shiver up my spine.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

I nod toward the display case and keep my voice inaudible to the guests. “Look at the picture.”

“Temperance?”

“What she’s holding.”

Rory studies the photo beside us for a moment and looks up at me. “Her book.”

“Exactly. How much you want to bet it’s here?”

“The library,” she gasps, the words whooshing out of her. “Her book collection was left intact. How do we…?”

The guests watch us carefully as they shuffle around the parlor. I lean into Rory, so close my lips are just a hair away from her ear. Her body shudders and she fidgets like she’s being tickled.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

Horror spreads across her face with a pouty grimace. It’s fearful and resistant. “No. Ezra, no way. We are not sneaking into Talbot House.”

—

* * *

“I cannot believe we’re sneaking into Talbot House.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Me either.”

I hate it, too. We wrapped our tour, returned to the shop, and disrobed as quickly as we could and got to brainstorming. We could hitch a ride on the second tour of the night, but the other guides know us and would be suspicious if we vanished. Our best bet was to wait until all the tours were done for the night and head out then. Beacon Hill would also be quiet and we’d run less of a risk of being spotted. My inner teacher’s pet is quaking, truthfully, but if there’s an answer inside that grimoire, we need it. We don’t have time to wait for the perfect moment. I have my evaluation with Dr. Belmont next week, and Rory is shooting The Out There. All on top of Halloween. We need our next steps now.

“This is breaking the law.”

“I know,” I grumble as we turn the corner. The neighborhood is mostly silent, lit by dim streetlamps and Halloween lights on houses, but there’s still the bustle of traffic from the main streets. Every whoosh of cars sets me further on edge, like any of them could catch us in the act.

“Did you feel anything strange tonight when we were here earlier?” I ask her.

Rory slows and shakes her head. “No.”

“No hints? Nothing from Temperance?”

Rory huffs. “No. When we talked to Temperance last night, she was really uncooperative.”

“But we’ve done a good job all day! We’ve hardly even fought.”

“I know. Then, there’s got to be something else to it,” she argues. “I’m hoping whatever spell this is, she’s written down its intention in the grimoire. That might be our best bet.”

Rory reaches Talbot House before I do and scurries up the stairs. She bounces on her toes, and I can’t tell if it’s the cold or nerves getting to her. I did a check on our way out earlier to see if there were any Ring cameras on the street, but there were none that would catch a glimpse of Talbot House.

“Okay,” I say. My breath puffs between us. “So, we go right to the library. Find the book. Get out as soon as possible.”

“We can’t…” She stumbles over her words. “We can’t take the book. That’s stealing. I don’t know how long it’ll take me to go through it, so maybe we just take pictures.”

Dammit. I know she’s right. One crime is more than enough for the night.

Rory reaches into her pocket for the key to Talbot House. She slides it into the lock and unlatches the door. Every sound feels deafening and betraying. Rory notches open the door and slips inside, holding a small space open for me.

The lights are dim, making the house look far more sinister than it is. The moonlight bleeds through the stained-glass transom above the door, casting faint purple and green speckles up the old stairs. I slink in behind Rory, and immediately, my boot creaks on one of the floorboards. We both jump.

“Shh!” Rory hisses.

“What am I supposed to do? Not have feet?”

Rory moves toward the display plaques and shines her flashlight on them. “Okay, so this is the book we’re looking for.”

Because we have people coming through here, we have to know the layout of the building in case of a fire. The library is on the first floor, around the corner. We take careful steps toward the back hallway and hook a right. Even though there’s nobody here, we keep to the shadows.

The hallway is nearly pitch black, illuminated by a small window at the end. I follow the sound of Rory’s footsteps until we reach the library. She twists the knob and lets us both in. Immediately, I pull the curtains shut and allow Rory to flip on the sconces.

Oh, god damn, Temperance Talbot had a lot of books.

The library smells of antique wood and worn pages. It’s a room full of floor-to-ceiling shelves, built into the walls themselves. There’s a velour chaise lounge near the window and an elegant coffee table at the center of the room. It’s easy to imagine Temperance Talbot sitting in here thinking up all her little schemes.

“Okay, let’s get to work,” I tell Rory. “Brown leather book and the front has the gold cups on it.”

She nods and starts at the opposite side of the room. I scan through the shelves, climbing on one of the rolling ladders for a higher vantage point.

Why couldn’t Temperance have put those little cups on the spine as well?

It’s only been a minute, but it feels like it’s been an hour. I’ve gently pulled out every brown book on the shelves, peered at their covers to see if any of them matched the book in the photograph. This is all a hunch I hope pays off. Across the room, Rory takes the other rolling ladder and zips through books.

Blue book.

Black book.

Brown book—nope.

I’m starting to sweat, which shouldn’t be the case considering how cold it is in here. I pull book after book.

Gray book.

Red book.

Brown book.

Fucking bingo.

“Rory!” I whisper-yell. “I got it!”

I hop off the ladder and meet her in the center of the room. The book is old, with the leather bindings fraying at the corners and spine. I’m overwhelmed by the kind of history I’m holding. It’s dark, brutal, and so completely human. I flip the crinkled pages open and stare at Temperance Talbot’s flowing script. It’s elegant and effortless, and her wry personality pops off the page by handwriting alone. These were her thoughts, memories, and vendettas etched on each page.

“Wow,” Rory gasps, standing next to me. I carefully pass the book to her. My fingertips brush hers and I’m hypnotized by her touch, but she’s entranced by the words on the page. She wanders away and sets it on the coffee table.

“Can you make anything of it?” I ask, kneeling beside her.

“I can.” She fishes her phone from her pocket and snaps away. “Ezra, keep watch and make sure no one’s coming.”

I nod and man the door, listening carefully to everything around me. The wind moves the house, giving it a sway and creak with each gust, and Rory’s panicked breathing keeps drawing my focus away. She may not believe it, but I know she’s going to be able to work some magic. Literally.

A thump of footsteps echo nearby—outside, maybe. I can’t tell how close, but I think it’s on the front stoop.

“Rory, did you lock the front door?” I ask.

“No? No one’s supposed to be here.”

“Well…I think someone is.”

“What?”

I step into the hallway and look toward the front door. For the first time in my life, I hope I’m dealing with a ghost. Because if a human is twisting the doorknob, then it means we’re not alone.

We aren’t.

It’s definitely a living person.

“Why is this door open?” the figure says.

I bolt back into the library and carefully shut the door behind me so no one can hear.

“Rory, wrap it up,” I hiss. “I think it’s the curator. Wrap it up now.”

She’s only got a few pages to go. The footsteps close in, creaking down the hall. I hit the lights to not blow our cover and swoop back to her. I rest a hand on her side, lightly nudging her off the chaise lounge.

“Rory!”

She slams the book shut, scurries to where it was on the shelf. She freezes.

“What do we do?” she gasps.

We’re not going to have a chance of getting out of the room without being spotted. We need to ride this out.

“Come here,” I say. I grab her hand and yank her toward the curtains, bunched up on either side of the windowpanes. I shove Rory behind them and shield her with my body. She is pressed firmly between me and the wall. I can’t move, breathe too hard—or think about how deadly close Rory and I are to one another.

Her breath catches in her throat, then she grabs my coat and tugs me even closer. A sliver of moonlight shimmers through the window and casts light onto her face—still dramatic and intense with stage makeup. Smudged eyeliner rims her emerald eyes, and her cheeks are still gray and ashy. The plum lipstick she always wears is deadly dark, especially in this light, and it sticks out like a beacon. Something my eyes go to. She always is.

Rory’s body is small, taut, and pliable as I press her into the wall. She lets out a soft “oh” as we come together. We’re chest to chest, hips to hips, even forehead to forehead. Everything about us is touching and I’m going to lose my mind. I might not blow our cover with the curator lurking around the house, but I am very concerned about getting uncomfortably hard right against Rory’s lower stomach. I’m still fantasizing about moving my hands lower, studying her like a lost text, and unraveling every secret of what’ll make this careful girl a mess.

The door handle twists with a rusted screech. Rory gasps, and my hand instinctually shoots to her mouth. Her green eyes flick up to mine and she steadies her breathing. I stop completely. Time slows down as the footsteps close in.

“Hm…” the curator says.

She steps into the room, seemingly looks around, and shuts the door behind her.

Rory and I both let out a sigh of relief, and I remove my hand from her mouth. Purple lipstick stains my palm, but I have no urge to wipe it off.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I notch the window open beside us. A cool breeze sweeps into the room. “I’ll go first.”

“What, so you escape and I get caught?”

“No,” I say. “So I can catch you.”

It’s maybe a six-foot drop from the windowsill, and it’ll hurt my knees in the morning, but I don’t think I’ll break a leg or anything. I shimmy out and leap to the ground, only to slip on a pile of fallen leaves. This could have been far more graceful, but I wasn’t born to be an athlete.

Rory sticks a leg out and wiggles through the opening. She takes a leap of faith, grips the bottom of the frame, and pulls it down with her. Okay, well, this is even less graceful than my dismount. She dangles from the brick edge of the window and kicks her feet sadly.

“Hang on,” I tell her. “I gotcha.”

I approach behind her and rest my hands on the sides of her thighs, showing her I’m here and I have decent grip. Yes, a firm handful of Rory’s thighs is exactly what I fucking needed. She lets go. She tumbles into my arms, and we both tumble into the leaf pile, but the fall doesn’t hurt as much as I expect it to. Few things can hurt when Rory’s lying on top of me, her body wedged between my legs, and her hand pressed firmly to my chest. The flurry of leaves left a few on her head, tucked in her curls. She doesn’t speak or move for a second, just stares down at me, breathless.

“Um. Are you good?” she finally asks.

“Good enough.” I look up at the window. “Nice move there.”

“Had to close the window,” she says, pulling herself off me and shaking the crunched leaves from her legs. “You ready to head home?”

Home. A place we’re going together. Where I’m going to sleep on her couch, have a little ghost watch me doze off, wake up to Rory making coffee or tea and doing her tarot flip. It doesn’t sound half bad tonight.

“Yeah, let’s.”

I take one final look at her lipstick marks on my hand before we depart.