Chapter 21

Matt

There is something seriously wrong with me.

I can't deny it any longer. I can't explain it away or make excuses. Something's happened to me, and I'm terrified.

I think… I think I've been bitten by a radioactive spider.

Not literally , of course. I'm not Spider-Man. Thank fuck, because web shooting out of my wrists at inconvenient moments would be super awks. But I've got some kind of superpowers.

God, it sounds insane. Maybe I'm insane. Maybe that's what this is. The doctors all agreed that I didn't have head trauma, but they could have been wrong. They could have missed something that's causing me to have hallucinations where I can hear, see, and smell things I shouldn't be able to and my strength is superhuman.

That would be one hell of a hallucination, though. I don't think most people hallucinate yanking the knob off a drawer that sticks. It's possible that the knob was going to come off anyway, since it does get yanked a lot, but it just didn't feel like I was pulling that hard. Honestly, I forgot that was the drawer that sticks until Dyl walked in, saw me with the knob in my hand, and said it was bound to happen one day.

Or… what if the head trauma was serious? Like, this isn't a hallucination—it's a coma dream. I'm still lying in the hospital in Reno, my family at my bedside as they pray for me to wake up, and meanwhile my brain's created an alternate life for me where I got healed and developed superpowers.

I honestly don't know which of these scenarios is worse, but it's freaking me the fuck out, and Dylan's starting to notice. The last few days, he's been shooting me worried looks all the time and asking if I'm okay. I'm a shitty liar—always have been—and I don't know how long I can hide this from him.

Because he can't find out. If I'm in a coma dream, telling my dream-boyfriend that he's not real and our life isn't real isn't going to make the dream a happy one. What if shattering it like that lands me in some kind of nightmare? Or worse —what if dream-Dylan leaves me because he thinks I'm trying to scare him off, and then I have to live my coma-dream life without him?

Fuck no. If I'm in a coma, I want to be in a happy one.

If I'm hallucinating because of head trauma… well, that's the best outcome. He'd be worried, and it would create some problems with getting treatment, since the rest of me is all healed up when it shouldn't be, but at least that's something that we can address. Maybe even fix.

But if I really have developed superpowers… If Marc healing me has somehow transformed me into a weird human-demon hybrid… Dylan can never know. He was raised in the Collective just like me, and neither of us have warm fuzzy feelings for demons, not even Marc—though I'll concede to grudging tolerance there. On top of that, demons killed Dylan's family. He had nobody left because of them, and while he might not want to murder me if he finds out, I don't… I can't…

He's not going to want to stay with me. If I'm a demon now, he won't want to sleep beside me and love me and spend his life with me.

I can't lose Dylan, so he can never know. No matter what. Which leaves me in the shitty situation of having to (badly) lie to my boyfriend and hide all the weird things that are happening.

It's not as easy as it sounds, either—how am I supposed to know if that noise I'm hearing is also audible to him? Or if the smell is? Is it more unusual for me to not comment on something that's obvious? And the whole strength thing is concerning—what if I accidentally hurt him? I don't know how much force I'm exerting until it's too late, hence the drawer knob and the whole couch thing last weekend. I don't want to injure Dylan, ever, and oh my god, what if it's a sex injury? What if I hurt him while we're having sex?

The thought of it haunts me, and as someone who can see and talk to ghosts, I don't use the word "haunt" lightly.

"What are you mooning about now? Shouldn't you be doing something useful?"

I startle, dropping my empty coffee cup, but manage to save it before it hits the floor. On the subject of being haunted…

Norval raises his impressive brows. "Well, at least nothing's wrong with your reflexes. I don't think I've ever seen you move that fast. This rest has done you good."

I smile weakly, because I never have moved that fast before. I don't think humans can. Maybe some—I don't know every human, obvs—but not me.

Still, if Norval wants to put it down to rest and clean living instead of me being a demon now, I'll take it.

"I'm not mooning," I protest. "I'm thinking… uh, about the route we'll take down to San Diego tomorrow."

The thousand-year-old ghost looks at me like I'm crazy. "I'm not an expert in driving, seeing as the DMV won't give a driver's license to a dead man, but isn't I-5 the fastest, most direct way from here?"

Damn him. "Yeah," I'm forced to admit. "But if we take I-5, we wouldn't, uh… we wouldn't get the views we'll get on the Pacific Highway."

The "are you crazy" look shifts to "do you have head trauma," and I mutter, "Never mind. You're right—I-5 is the best option." At least he's distracted now. "Do you have any news for us?"

He harrumphs and shakes his head. "Maybe. Not yet. I'm close, though."

"Close to what?" Dylan asks as he stumbles into the kitchen with his eyes half open.

"You're up." I glance at the clock in surprise, wondering if I lost track of time, but there's still an hour until he normally wakes up. "Everything okay?"

He nods as he heads toward the coffee machine. "My brain is braining too loud for sleep."

I make a sympathetic noise—been there, done that, got the whole friggin' merch line—even as Norval says, "I've spent a millennium hearing English evolve, and this generation makes the least sense of any of them. ‘Braining' is not a verb, Dylan."

"Since when do you care?" I ask. Dylan's so focused on the coffee dripping into his mug that I'm not sure he even heard Norval.

My pseudo-uncle tsks. "If we cared more about these things, communication would be easier," he grumbles, and I get it. He's in a bitchy mood because things aren't going his way.

"What are you close to, Uncle?" I ask sympathetically. "Maybe we can give you a fresh perspective."

Dylan comes to lean against me as he sips, and I carefully—so carefully—put my arm around him. He doesn't flinch, so I don't think I was rough. "Fresh perspective," he agrees. "Close to what?"

I grin. He's so cute when he's waking up.

Norval shakes his head and sighs. "I've been tracking down this one family. They got kicked out right after the first Collective settlers arrived in North America—I don't remember what for. I wasn't here at the time because some idiot in Russia thought it was a good idea to summon demons to protect northern villages from polar bears. Have you ever been to northern Russia in winter? I'd been dead for six hundred years and I still felt the damn cold."

As fascinating as that is… "Okay, so the whole family got kicked out? That's unusual, right? Or was it a young family?" It would make sense for a hunter to take their kids with them if the kids were still minors, but otherwise the Collective usually doesn't punish a whole family for the sins of one member. There aren't enough hunters in the world—and our life expectancy isn't good enough—for us to be expelling them all the time.

"It was just a single hunter," Norval says grimly. "A veteran man. There was a big kerfuffle at the time but I cannot remember why , dammit !" He shouts the last few words, frustration overtaking him. "He went on to marry and have a family, and they all moved around a fair bit. And now I can't find them. The last trace of the family was in New Hampshire in 1897, and then…" He shakes his head. "I can't find them after that. The whole beleaguered town they were living in is full of ghosts, but nobody knows what happened to them or where they went."

That's… weird. Older towns with lots of ghosts are always a great place to track down historical information and family lineage—especially if it's another ghost doing the asking.

"Have you asked Ian to check the archives?" Dylan asks. "If we know why they were kicked out, we'll have somewhere to start. And if you can give me the names and approximate ages of the last-known descendants, I can probably find something in official records." He grimaces. "It would take a while, though, and I have a bunch of other stuff going on. How likely do you think it is that this family is involved? Nearly four hundred years is a long time to hold a grudge."

Norval hesitates. "I don't know," he finally admits. "I don't like that I can't find them, and I don't like that none of the other families I've looked at are good options for this. But I can't say I have proof it's them." He huffs. "For all I know, they went on vacation for a week, caught smallpox, and died, and nobody ever bothered to let their neighbors know or even clear out their house."

What a depressing thought. "We can't afford to let anything slide, so why don't you see what Ian can find out?" I suggest. "Dyl and I will be there tomorrow night, too, and we can talk about it then. If anything he finds seems to warrant it, we'll bump them up the priority list." I casually let my arm slide from Dylan's shoulders under the guise of turning to look at him more fully. "I can always help with that—maybe not searching government records, but some of those genealogy and family tree sites have dead people information. I can at least try to find where they were up to the last generation."

Dylan smiles, a lot more awake now that he's gotten through his coffee. "That's a great idea. Norval, how do you feel about this plan?"

Uncle's still frowning, but he nods. "It's a start. I'll go talk to Ian now. Do you want company on the drive tomorrow?"

Eight hours trapped in a car with him? "No, that's fine," I say hastily. "You've got a lot to do, and I'll bet you haven't had any time off lately. Why don't you check in with Ian and then spend tomorrow at Mannix with your friends? Once we're back in San Diego, we can meet up to talk strategy."

He makes a hmm sound. "I am a few episodes behind on MAFS ," he concedes. "And I haven't checked on Connor and Gabe for a while. They miss me when I'm gone too long."

"I know," I say, deadpan. "They're so grateful for your guidance with the new compound."

Nodding, he pats me on the shoulder. "You're a good boy, Matthias, even if sometimes you're an idiot. Drive carefully." He's gone before I can protest.

"I am not an idiot," I tell the empty space where he was standing, just because I want the last word.

Dylan snorts and takes my mug, going to put it and his into the sink. "Mostly you're not, but I want to point out that it's been ten whole minutes and you haven't kissed me good morning yet." He strolls back over and slides his arms around my waist. "Wanna fix that?"

I can't resist him, so I lean in and meet his lips with mine, putting my hands on his arms where I can't accidentally crush his lungs if I squeeze. But what I intended to be a quick, gentle peck rapidly gets heated, and my arms slide around him, pulling him closer. I can never be close enough… I'd live inside him if I coul?—

Yanking back, I exercise every ounce of willpower I have and take a step away. No. I can't risk it—can't risk him. I don't want to accidentally hurt him in the heat of the moment.

He stares at me, eyes dazed with lust and confusion, and I mumble, "Gotta take a piss," before hightailing it out of the room.

This is a disaster.