Chapter 8

We stopoutside the chapel's doors, doubled over, and panting for breath.

"There's nothing quite like being chased through a cemetery by a crazy ghost to make you feel alive."

"Oh my god. That's not funny!"

"It's a little bit funny."

We stare at each other, and the look on her face—a mixture of shock, fear, and exasperation—tips me over the edge. Laughter escapes my lips. Her lips part, probably to tell me to stop, and that just makes me worse. The longer she stands there, just staring at me like I've lost my mind, the harder I laugh. Tears spill from my eyes, I can't breathe, and eventually I'm wheezing instead of laughing, clutching my sides, and pointing at her.

Zoey plants her hands on her hips, and glares at me. "Stop laughing. Nothing about this is funny."

"Why … did … we … run?" I manage to force out between gasps.

She scowls. "What do you mean? We ran because Churchill chased us."

I shake my head. "But … but …" I suck in a deep breath, fighting to get control of myself. "But we're ghosts. You could have just … you know …" I wave a hand. "Poofed us out of there."

"Poofed us?" The incredulous way she repeats the words sets me off again.

I sink to my knees, hands wrapped around my torso, taking in heaving breaths, and slowly my laughter turns to sobs. I can't stop shaking, my entire body wracked with anger and pain. A hand smooths over my hair, and down until she can squeeze my shoulder.

"I know," Zoey says softly. "Don't fight it, Kell."

"It's not fair."

"I know."

"I shouldn't be dead. Not at that asshole's hands."

Her hand strokes my back. "I know."

"Eli won't be able to deal with it." My head snaps up, and I search out Zoey's face. "You said you watched us. How did you do it? Can you take me to Eli?"

She holds out a hand. "I can try. I just had to think about you both, and close my eyes. When I opened them, I'd be wherever you were. It was harder when you weren't here. The only time I could reach you was if you were together."

I nod, wipe the tears from my face, and stand up. "Okay. Let's do it."

I take her hand and close my eyes. My stomach jolts, the way it does when you go over a bump at high speed in a car, and when I open my eyes again, we're in Eli's bedroom.

I turn in a circle. The place is a mess. Beer bottles everywhere. Dirty clothes strewn across the floor. It tells me everything I need to know about his state of mind. Eli is a neat-freak, I'm the messy one … Was the messy one.

"How long has passed?" I search out Zoey, who's standing near the bed.

She shrugs. "I don't know. I told you. Time passes differently for us. I'll look around and see if I can find out." She disappears, only to reappear a couple of seconds later, her face somber. "I think we should go back."

"Why?"

"Please, Kellan."

I fold my arms and lift my chin. "What did you find?"

"Just once can't you do something without arguing?"

"No."

She sighs. "Fine. They're getting ready to go to your funeral."

My spine snaps taut. "Already?"

"It's been a week for them."

"A week and he's living like this?" I spin, and stalk across to the bathroom, reaching out a hand to open the door, then laughing quietly when it passes right through it. Steeling myself for the weird sensation, I step through and into the bathroom.

Eli is walking out of the shower when I enter, his movements slow and jerky. Devastation is clear on his face, from the set line of his lips to the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he looks around, as though he's trying to figure out what he should be doing.

"Get dressed, idiot." I roll my eyes. "I can't have a funeral without you there, can I?"

"I don't want you to have a funeral at all. I want this all to be a big fucking joke."

My jaw drops. Can he hear me?

I follow him through to the bedroom, where he eyes the suit laid out on his bed.

"I'm going to look like a fucking undertaker."

I step up beside him, and let one hand hover above his shoulder. I can't touch him. If my hand goes through him, I don't think I can hold it together.

"But you'll wear it because it's what I want."

His head bows, grief and pain flowing out from him. His thoughts are clear. He might as well be voicing them. He thinks it should have been him who died, not me.

"Stop it. Get dressed, stop fucking moping, and go downstairs."

And, once again, as though he can hear me, he reaches for the clothes.