Page 15 of Feral Possession

Invisible fingers grazed her cheek in a gentle, almost reverent caress.

“Hi ya!” She swung her sword. Rainbow plastic whistled through the air. “Take that!” Swish. Woosh. “Show yourself, coward!”

Swishwoosh.

Swishwoosh.

Swishwoosh.

Her arm muscles burned from the unexpected workout, and her frantic swiping slowed. There wasn’t anything there. Her Jedi skills wasted. Her glyph fired up, itching like poison ivy on a hot summer day. She fought the urge to use her rainbow sword as a backscratcher.

Shadows slid across the floor, retreating toward the window. In their wake, a deep-throated rumble teased her ears. Was that laughter? Nothing about the laughter or the shadow was natural. In fact, it was supernatural. She facepalmed her forehead.

“I’m so stupid.”

She wasn’t being hazed. She was being haunted.

Thank goodness. The burning anxiety pumping through her veins cooled. This she could handle. She’d take a ghost over a shadow monster any day. What a boneheaded mistake for a necromancer. In her defense, she was totally out of her element here at Steele Tower. New home, new benefactor, locked in, missing Vivian and Armond, out of sorts. Her lapse in judgment, totally understandable. Okay, dose of self-destructive guilt—averted.

Think, Dove. Think.

Steele Tower was a fairly new building, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t susceptible to spirits and poltergeist. From what she understood, the tower was home to several businesses and housed hundreds of souls. Any of them could have met their end here. Maybe her visitor was one of the women Steele had locked away in his creepy, forbidden wing.

Cause of death—asparagus poisoning. She shivered. What a way to go.

Problem, this spirit was what she called a chain-rattler. Yeah, the instructors at Havenhouse hated when she made up her own names for things. What-ev. Her choices made a lot more sense than their Latin gobbledygook. Unlike the moaners and groaners, rattlers could interact with their environment, making them hard to ignore.

Worse, this interloper was invading her personal space. Worse than worse—it had touched her.

Unacceptable.

Not that she was one for absolutes, but this issue was a hard limit between necromancers and the incorporeal. Under no circumstances should a necromancer allow a spirit to manipulate or control their bodies. Turns out, bad things happened when spirits inhabited a supernatural being who was capable of controlling spiritual energy. Still, this was a rule that made a lot of sense. One of the rare few she respected and followed religiously.

Ready to battle, Dove rose up on her knees, holding her rainbow sword like Rey Skywalker—the coolest badass chick of all the Star Wars jedis. Why she didn’t just get it on with Kylo Ren, she’d never understand. They were so yin and yang, light and dark. Perfect for each other. “Alright, listen here. I’ve had about enough of this. Now, this is how it’s going to go. First—”

The bed beneath her shimmied. Uh-oh. Not good. Her rattler had some serious kahunas to pull off that kind of physical manifestation. Making it a high level something-or-other. Okay, so what if she’d flunked out of the more advanced portion of the chain-rattler class, but the instructor hated her, so… not her fault.

“Alright, you’ve made your point.” She could end this with a snap of her fingers. Still, being a pacifist, she preferred to pursue non-violent alternatives when possible. “You’re totally shaking my bed. Good for you. Now, if you would kindly stop, perhaps we could talk and get to know each other better.”

In answer, paintings banged against the walls, and her bed vibrated. Cool. She hadn’t even put a quarter in for the ride. Sledgehammers attacked the door. The noise grew deafening. Her annoying visitor was totally showing off. All around her was chaos. Seriously, with all the racket, why didn’t someone come to her rescue? Anyone in earshot was probably in denial that it was happening.

This was the problem with the divide between the living and the dead. The living liked to pretend the dead didn’t exist. And the dead liked to pretend they were above the living. Anyone who talked about the two was considered a wacko. That’s where Dove came in.

She smashed her hands over her ears. “Okay, incorporeal being, this is your last warning before I bring out the big guns. Trust me. You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

Again, in answer, the violence escalated. Lights flickered like a strobe. The entire space writhed as though caught in an earthquake. Every piece of her haven was in motion.

Enough was enough.

She sighed and stumbled clear of the bouncing bed, standing with her legs braced in the middle of the room. Warmth rose in her center, blazing up through her chest, to her throat. She tipped back her head and unleased an energy-infused command. “The power of Christ compels you!” Laughter bubbled up inside of her. “Sorry.” She wiped a hilarious tear from her eye. “Ah, that one always gets me. But seriously… Leave. Now,” she said in an otherworldly voice, delivering the order with a hefty push of power.

Quiet descended.

The bed settled into its frame. Paintings rested askew on the walls as though a drunk with vertigo had hung them. Clothing spilled from the partially opened drawers of the dresser. Lights blazed to life. The quiet was almost deafening. It was the kind of silence that followed a horrible storm. When all that remained was the carnage it left behind.

In the aftermath, Dove groaned, rubbing her pounding temples. Dang it. She hated to pull out the big guns. And here comes the migraine.

She surveyed the disheveled room and exhaled a sigh. What do you know? The place was starting to look like home.

---