13. Sekani Aelor

Chapter 13

Sekani Aelor

H ours had passed since we’d arrived at Callum’s apartment.

He’d returned to his canvas and brushes on shaky legs after I’d jerked him off. I ignored the throbbing of my own cock and continued the search, looking for the backpack his mother said was missing.

The whole time I searched, I could only wonder if it counted as sex with a ghost if they didn’t touch you? I’d only touched him so . . . didn’t count, right?

Plus, Callum isn’t technically dead, just . . . slowly dying.

I needed to save him.

But how?

I sat on the end of his bed with my ankles crossed and my arms extended behind me, supporting my weight as I watched him paint.

He hadn’t started over on the painting but had painted over a large portion of it in white then dried it with a blow dryer. From there, he started to mix colors and fall into the rhythm of his work.

It was . . . amazing.

I didn’t have talent—not really. But he had it in spades.

I stood as he set his paintbrush down. The sun had set; even with the light on, the room was still pretty dim. But the painting looked done.

He looked out the window. “I guess I lost track of time.” He offered me a shy smile. “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind.” He’d looked more happy and relaxed than he had since I met him.

Maybe it was the hand job. Maybe it was the painting. Either way, I liked just watching him sink into something, leave his troubles behind even for a few short hours. I wished I could do the same so easily.

“So? Is it done?” Or did it just appear that way to me because I didn’t know anything about art?

“Yeah. What do you think?”

I laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think you’re amazing.”

“I put all my time and focus into this. Nothing else mattered,” he muttered as he looked at the painting. His use of color shouldn’t have worked but . . . it really did. I didn’t know why but it looked alive, like a living thing, not just paint on a canvas. “But if I never wake up it’ll all be for nothing.”

“Do you love it? Painting?”

“Yeah. I really do,” he replied as he stroked the edge of the canvas, smearing some of the paint before jerking his hand back. It didn’t take away from the painting in any way. Instead, it added to it—something imperfect to counter the perfection.

“Then it’s not for nothing,” I told him.

The doorknob jiggled before his apartment door was pushed open. I looked over to see Luke standing in the doorway, looking guilty as hell.

“What are you doing here?” Luke asked.

“Mrs. Maslow sent me to look for Callum’s bag. Have you seen it?”

He shrugged. “I figured the cops had it. He never went anywhere without that ugly bag.”

I shook my head. “He wasn’t brought into the hospital with it. Maybe I’m just missing it. Do you know what it looked like?”

“Why do you want his bag?”

“I told you. Mrs. Maslow sent me for it,” I replied, keeping my tone light and conversational even though he was a douchebag of the highest order.

Not just because he was obviously stonewalling me either. But because Callum was supposed to be his best friend and every time he opened his mouth, he had some kind of putdown ready.

“It’s an old messenger bag. It was green but now it’s so covered in paint, who knows? And the strap is mostly duct tape.” He wasn’t lying about that, at least.

“Why is he even here?” Callum muttered from my side.

“Did you need something from Callum’s apartment? Don’t let me stop you.” I gestured to the room.

“I just . . . Wait. Did you touch this painting?” Luke stumbled forward.

“Oh. No. But, he’s as good as everyone says.” I turned to look at the painting again. “It’s a shame he couldn’t submit his final project. Maybe I’ll talk to Mrs. Maslow about getting his paintings together and turning them in. It looks like he finished this one just in time.”

“I can’t believe he finished it,” Luke muttered, reaching out to touch the canvas. I grasped his wrist before he could discover the paint was wet and his gaze snapped to me. “You know you never told me who this client of yours is. All of Callum’s friends are mine so maybe I can help.”

“Sad thing about memory loss is the part where you lose your memory. He can’t remember his own name.” I shrugged and released his wrist when he pulled back.

“Maybe you should bring him to the hospital,” Luke said as he pushed one hand into his pocket. “I’m sure Mrs. Maslow won’t mind.”

My gaze dragged over him. “Actually, I think that might be a good idea.” Callum wasn’t remembering anything. We needed to get him back into his body before his body died and he was really dead. There was a way—a long shot to be sure but . . . worth a try. “Tomorrow. Four.”

“Great. I can lock up behind you,” Luke said.

“No need.” I smiled, tucking my hand in my pocket as well, and rocked back on my heels. “I’m going to do one last sweep for his bag. You grab what you need and head out. I’m sure you’ve got school bright and early tomorrow.”

He moved away, stopping at the wall of pictures and ripping some out from under the pins, not caring if he tore through them or not. When he was done, he shoved them in his pocket and left, slamming the door behind him.

I glanced at Callum who was frowning at the wall before he looked at the door.

“I’m starting to think Luke isn’t actually my friend at all,” Callum said.

“What gave it away?” I asked as I grabbed a chair from the table and dragged it to the door. I shoved it under the knob, kicking it hard to make sure it wouldn’t budge.

“The murderous intent coming off him when he sees you.”

“Yeah. That’s a pretty good giveaway.” I grasped his shoulder and squeezed. He inhaled sharply as his door appeared in the apartment. He couldn’t see it but since I used him to call it forth, he could probably feel its presence like a heavy, unpleasant weight on his chest. When it came for them, a person’s door was a hard thing to resist. It wasn’t here for Callum though—just me.

“I guess it’s a good thing my mom’s always there,” he said, his chest rocking even though he had no real need for oxygen. “He can’t kill me at least.”

“Meet me at the hospital—your floor,” I told him as I pulled a knife from my pocket and sliced through my hand.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you back in your body—hopefully. It might suck a little.” Or a lot. But the alternative would be so much worse.

“I’ll meet you there,” he said, his stormy eyes flickering around the apartment. I slapped my bloody hand against his door. It sprang open and I stepped into hell, or as close to it as I assumed a person could get before—and maybe even after—they died.

The unpleasant memories, as they were often referred to—the dead who took a door not their own—quickly took notice but I didn’t stop to look at them, to speak to any of them even as they took on the familiar shapes of dead loved ones.

It had been years since I’d used the doors and there were plenty of new faces, but no one rushed me. The older ones knew better at this point.

Still, one fell into step beside me. I looked over to see the washed out, colorless figure of my dead fiancé.

He grinned, the corner of his lips tipping up as if he was preparing to make a sexy suggestion, like he had a hundred times in the past. Anger unspooled inside me and I looked away, carrying on.

Deacon was gone. This unpleasant memory wasn’t him. It was just a desperate ghost hoping I’d free them from a hell of their own making.

My gaze skipped over the doors I passed, looking for the one I needed.

The great thing about them was just how organized they were. They lined up nice and neat in endless rows. Some of them were marked differently—those ones didn’t lead back to home, but deeper into this wasteland which I knew ended in a central room with a single door I’d never attempted to open.

It felt wrong .

I found the door I was looking for quickly, easily. I was used to navigating the maze. Plus, this particular pair of doors called to me, considering how often I used them. I really shouldn’t have been using them at all, but that bridge was already built. And this was easier than a phone call—this way they couldn’t ignore me.

Yanking one open, even as I felt the heavy weight of the unpleasant memory pushing against my back, I used my body to block the exit and poked my head out.

Thankfully, Dumb and Dumber were sitting on the sofa, watching another supposedly scary movie.

Their heads snapped up, River’s eyes wide, his chest rocking as he sucked in a startled breath. The only time a living spirit medium could see their own door was like this—some asshole popping it open.

“Get to the hospital,” I ordered before I slammed the door shut so the asshole at my back couldn’t push past me. The last thing I needed to deal with on top of everything else was an escapee.