though his heart still tapped a rapid rhythm. He rolled his eyes at Artie's familiar tone and shook his head. The guy was impossible to stay mad at.
"Just . . . try to . . . manifest or whatever it is in front of me instead of behind my back, okay?" he asked.
"Right," Artie said, lips pursed doubtfully. "Like that's going to be less freaky for you. You're just gonna have to get a thicker skin, y'know? Why is it you strong guys are always the jittery ones?"
"I'm not jittery."
"Yeah, and politicians aren't corrupt. Actually, I wouldn't mind so much that they're corrupt if they'd just be more up front about it. Wear a 'for sale' button or something, y'know? If you're going to be greedy and sell your soul, stop being so afraid to get caught. They're all such babies about it. Talk about cowards.
Between the votes they've been paid off to cast, and the ones they cast 'cause they're too afraid of backlash from the religious right or whatever to actually vote how they think, I bet most of them don't ever cast a vote that really represents their own thought process. It's such a dirty business. No wonder there's - "
"Artie!" Jack snapped, his voice hushed, even though he was fairly certain Molly couldn't hear him over the shower.
The spirit's eyes widened, and Jack shuddered to see the eternal blackness within them. The rest of him was insubstantial. The morning sun passed through him, his body as gossamer as the curtains that hung over the windows. But those eyes . . .
"Sorry, bro," Artie said. "Just got carried away. Most of the folks over here in the Ghostlands don't have much patience with talk about their old lives, the world, y'know? Hurts too much to talk about what they've left behind."
Jack felt a stab of guilt, feeling as though he'd robbed Artie of the small pleasure of arguing. "Another time, okay? When Molly's not around, we can debate all you want."
Artie perked up. "Really?"
"Truly."
"Thanks, Jack. I mean it." The ghost's eyes darted toward the bathroom door. "So you and Molly . . .?"
Jack stiffened. "Nothing, Artie. There's nothing going on."
Artie gazed at him with obvious disappointment. "Come on. What am I, twelve? I've seen you guys dancing around each other like bugs trying to keep away from the backyard zapper. Just kiss her, already."
Horrified, Jack clapped a hand over his eyes and lowered his head. "Man, stop with that. She's your girlfriend."
When he took his hand away from his face, Jack saw that Artie was hovering only two inches away, close enough so that his fingers dragged through the ethereally cold nothingness that made up Artie's body.
Jack jerked back hard and his head hit the wall with a thud. He winced, but Artie moved closer. The specter's eyes had narrowed with anger and an abiding, aching sadness that hurt Jack to the core.
"Don't do that to me, Jack," Artie said through clenched teeth, angrier than Jack had ever seen him.
"What? Don't do what?"
"Don't talk to me like I'm alive." Artie turned and floated back across the room, his legs passing right through the bed. Once he had pretended to walk, but that had been right after he'd died. Now he simply drifted.
"Artie, listen - "
"No," Artie snapped, turning on him. "You do what you want, Jack. Do what your heart tells you to do. But you're my best friend. I expect you to watch out for Molly as best you can. Do I wish I could hold her in my arms and tell her everything will be all right?"
His voice seemed to drop an octave, to become hollow and distant and cold. The dark eyes swirled, with the eternity of the Ghostlands visible through them, and for the first time Jack was afraid of the ghost. He knew Artie could not hurt him, but there was a darkness in him in that moment, the sinister weight of death itself, that made Jack shiver.
"Of course I do," Artie whispered. After a moment, he looked up again. "But I can't do that, Jack. If Molly ends up with anybody else, it'll break my heart. But with you . . . I can live with
"Just . . . try to . . . manifest or whatever it is in front of me instead of behind my back, okay?" he asked.
"Right," Artie said, lips pursed doubtfully. "Like that's going to be less freaky for you. You're just gonna have to get a thicker skin, y'know? Why is it you strong guys are always the jittery ones?"
"I'm not jittery."
"Yeah, and politicians aren't corrupt. Actually, I wouldn't mind so much that they're corrupt if they'd just be more up front about it. Wear a 'for sale' button or something, y'know? If you're going to be greedy and sell your soul, stop being so afraid to get caught. They're all such babies about it. Talk about cowards.
Between the votes they've been paid off to cast, and the ones they cast 'cause they're too afraid of backlash from the religious right or whatever to actually vote how they think, I bet most of them don't ever cast a vote that really represents their own thought process. It's such a dirty business. No wonder there's - "
"Artie!" Jack snapped, his voice hushed, even though he was fairly certain Molly couldn't hear him over the shower.
The spirit's eyes widened, and Jack shuddered to see the eternal blackness within them. The rest of him was insubstantial. The morning sun passed through him, his body as gossamer as the curtains that hung over the windows. But those eyes . . .
"Sorry, bro," Artie said. "Just got carried away. Most of the folks over here in the Ghostlands don't have much patience with talk about their old lives, the world, y'know? Hurts too much to talk about what they've left behind."
Jack felt a stab of guilt, feeling as though he'd robbed Artie of the small pleasure of arguing. "Another time, okay? When Molly's not around, we can debate all you want."
Artie perked up. "Really?"
"Truly."
"Thanks, Jack. I mean it." The ghost's eyes darted toward the bathroom door. "So you and Molly . . .?"
Jack stiffened. "Nothing, Artie. There's nothing going on."
Artie gazed at him with obvious disappointment. "Come on. What am I, twelve? I've seen you guys dancing around each other like bugs trying to keep away from the backyard zapper. Just kiss her, already."
Horrified, Jack clapped a hand over his eyes and lowered his head. "Man, stop with that. She's your girlfriend."
When he took his hand away from his face, Jack saw that Artie was hovering only two inches away, close enough so that his fingers dragged through the ethereally cold nothingness that made up Artie's body.
Jack jerked back hard and his head hit the wall with a thud. He winced, but Artie moved closer. The specter's eyes had narrowed with anger and an abiding, aching sadness that hurt Jack to the core.
"Don't do that to me, Jack," Artie said through clenched teeth, angrier than Jack had ever seen him.
"What? Don't do what?"
"Don't talk to me like I'm alive." Artie turned and floated back across the room, his legs passing right through the bed. Once he had pretended to walk, but that had been right after he'd died. Now he simply drifted.
"Artie, listen - "
"No," Artie snapped, turning on him. "You do what you want, Jack. Do what your heart tells you to do. But you're my best friend. I expect you to watch out for Molly as best you can. Do I wish I could hold her in my arms and tell her everything will be all right?"
His voice seemed to drop an octave, to become hollow and distant and cold. The dark eyes swirled, with the eternity of the Ghostlands visible through them, and for the first time Jack was afraid of the ghost. He knew Artie could not hurt him, but there was a darkness in him in that moment, the sinister weight of death itself, that made Jack shiver.
"Of course I do," Artie whispered. After a moment, he looked up again. "But I can't do that, Jack. If Molly ends up with anybody else, it'll break my heart. But with you . . . I can live with
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