disturbance. The real evil was in the spell that imprisoned a soul inside the crystal ball. It had to be shattered to stop the destruction in purgatory.
Velvet sat back down in her chair, eyes never leaving the cloudy depths of the glass orb. “Yes,” Velvet said, trying to contain her desire to leap over the table and snatch the ball immediately. “Very much.”
“What was your brother’s name?” Madame Despot asked.
“Spencer. Spencer Pratt.” She took the name from a television show she hadn’t thought of in years. If she recalled, Spencer was a bit of a douche. Much like her real brothers, only, to be fair, much older and worse.
“Spencer Pratt,” the woman repeated. “And your name?”
She almost responded “Heidi,” then thought it might be a jinx and recalled the nurse’s actual name. “Antoinette.”
“Of course.” She pointed at Velvet’s chest. “Silly me; it says so right on your badge. I’m going to call for your brother now, see if he’ll come in search of your essence.”
That’ll make two of us
, Velvet thought, and glanced toward an antique mirror, dark and smoky where it met the ornate frame that held it. Sticking straight out of the center was Grover, fresh from Sesame Street and nodding wildly. The costume, the one Logan had been wearing the Halloween night when he’d died, never failed to surprise her when itpopped up, wild eyed and tongue protruding from the fuzzy blue mask’s wide mouth. She thanked God she hadn’t been wearing her ratty bunny slippers the day she’d died, or she’d be stuck in them every time she crossed into the daylight. Why wearing slippers to school was ever a fashion trend would remain a mystery—an eternity of
cute
was enough to send chills spiking through her, right to the bone, or whatever it was that kept her frame up these days, so hard to tell. But Logan didn’t seem to mind his costume. He was like that, good-natured, easy. Until it was time to fight. Then watch out.
Their eyes met, and Velvet motioned with a nod of her head toward the crystal ball. Grover nodded and ducked back inside the mirror, presumably to collect Luisa and get ready for the attack.
Madame Despot caged the ball between her stubby fingers, running the tips over the glass and moaning annoyingly. “Spencer Pratt!” she bellowed.
Velvet rolled her eyes.
Logan must have alerted Luisa and they’d met up with Quentin, because the next thing Velvet knew, amid Madame Despot’s loud orchestrations and ball rubbing, Velvet heard the soft click of the front door latch and the sloshy footsteps of what could only be the bare rotten feet of a corpse.
And if she could hear him, it wouldn’t be long before Madame Despot would.
Velvet forced out a violent cough and joined the fortune-teller in yelling, “Spencer!”
Madame Despot’s eyes snapped open and glowered. “Please! Let me do my job.”
Velvet made like she was locking her lips closed with a key, and the woman went back to her show. It didn’t matter what kind of drama she employed; the soul inside the cell would be implored to respond no matter what. Even now, the cloudy imperfections in the glass turned inky and swirled inside.
Luisa appeared through the curtain hiding the back of the shop and waited.
So did Velvet. She sensed Quentin’s readiness to her left, and after Logan appeared in the mirror again, Velvet nodded to each of them to begin.
Luisa and Logan disappeared and immediately began making a racket in the back room. Pots and pans clanged, chains rattled—it was amazing how those two always managed to find kitchen stuff to bang together, not to mention chains.
Where do you even find chains when you’re alive?
Velvet expected Madame Despot to scream, to jump from her chair on cue and spin toward the clatter.
But she didn’t. She did turn her head a bit, glancing suspiciously in the direction of the curtain.
Seeing the smallest opportunity, Velvet dove across the table for the glass ball,
Velvet sat back down in her chair, eyes never leaving the cloudy depths of the glass orb. “Yes,” Velvet said, trying to contain her desire to leap over the table and snatch the ball immediately. “Very much.”
“What was your brother’s name?” Madame Despot asked.
“Spencer. Spencer Pratt.” She took the name from a television show she hadn’t thought of in years. If she recalled, Spencer was a bit of a douche. Much like her real brothers, only, to be fair, much older and worse.
“Spencer Pratt,” the woman repeated. “And your name?”
She almost responded “Heidi,” then thought it might be a jinx and recalled the nurse’s actual name. “Antoinette.”
“Of course.” She pointed at Velvet’s chest. “Silly me; it says so right on your badge. I’m going to call for your brother now, see if he’ll come in search of your essence.”
That’ll make two of us
, Velvet thought, and glanced toward an antique mirror, dark and smoky where it met the ornate frame that held it. Sticking straight out of the center was Grover, fresh from Sesame Street and nodding wildly. The costume, the one Logan had been wearing the Halloween night when he’d died, never failed to surprise her when itpopped up, wild eyed and tongue protruding from the fuzzy blue mask’s wide mouth. She thanked God she hadn’t been wearing her ratty bunny slippers the day she’d died, or she’d be stuck in them every time she crossed into the daylight. Why wearing slippers to school was ever a fashion trend would remain a mystery—an eternity of
cute
was enough to send chills spiking through her, right to the bone, or whatever it was that kept her frame up these days, so hard to tell. But Logan didn’t seem to mind his costume. He was like that, good-natured, easy. Until it was time to fight. Then watch out.
Their eyes met, and Velvet motioned with a nod of her head toward the crystal ball. Grover nodded and ducked back inside the mirror, presumably to collect Luisa and get ready for the attack.
Madame Despot caged the ball between her stubby fingers, running the tips over the glass and moaning annoyingly. “Spencer Pratt!” she bellowed.
Velvet rolled her eyes.
Logan must have alerted Luisa and they’d met up with Quentin, because the next thing Velvet knew, amid Madame Despot’s loud orchestrations and ball rubbing, Velvet heard the soft click of the front door latch and the sloshy footsteps of what could only be the bare rotten feet of a corpse.
And if she could hear him, it wouldn’t be long before Madame Despot would.
Velvet forced out a violent cough and joined the fortune-teller in yelling, “Spencer!”
Madame Despot’s eyes snapped open and glowered. “Please! Let me do my job.”
Velvet made like she was locking her lips closed with a key, and the woman went back to her show. It didn’t matter what kind of drama she employed; the soul inside the cell would be implored to respond no matter what. Even now, the cloudy imperfections in the glass turned inky and swirled inside.
Luisa appeared through the curtain hiding the back of the shop and waited.
So did Velvet. She sensed Quentin’s readiness to her left, and after Logan appeared in the mirror again, Velvet nodded to each of them to begin.
Luisa and Logan disappeared and immediately began making a racket in the back room. Pots and pans clanged, chains rattled—it was amazing how those two always managed to find kitchen stuff to bang together, not to mention chains.
Where do you even find chains when you’re alive?
Velvet expected Madame Despot to scream, to jump from her chair on cue and spin toward the clatter.
But she didn’t. She did turn her head a bit, glancing suspiciously in the direction of the curtain.
Seeing the smallest opportunity, Velvet dove across the table for the glass ball,
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