Page 11 of Ghosted AF
It didn’t budge.
The metal beneath my palm warmed, subtly at first, then surging with heat and intensity, forcing my hand back once again. Apparently, whatever had moved into Rylee’s apartment had decided to come out of hiding.
Game on.
Curling my hand into a fist, I draped my arm across my abdomen and angled sideways, ramming my shoulder against the thin wood. The frame cracked, and the lock popped, but it didn’t open.
I drove my shoulder into it again, a growl of satisfaction rumbling in my chest when the door exploded inward and banged against the wall.
The bedroom was stifling, the atmosphere heavy and cloying.
Hot and arid, the air seemed to move, flowing and shifting, flickering like an invisible flame. Sweat beaded across my brow and slicked the skin on my back when I stepped into the room, and every breath seared, sticking in my throat.
Across from the bed, the closet door stood open, showing the jumbled contents piled haphazardly on the floor. Clothes, hangers, shoes, boxes, and an assortment of odds and endsspilled out onto the carpet, while inside, the mountain of debris pulsed like a heartbeat.
I inched closer, making it as far as the end of the mattress before the wind kicked up, slamming into me like a hurricane. My hair whipped around my face, and my wings caught on the updraft.
I tried to tuck them closer, to shield them from the onslaught, but the new position only caused more damage. Feathers tore free to fly around the room, and tufts of down clung to my eyelashes.
Ducking my head, I shielded myself as best I could, but ultimately, I could do nothing but wait for the storm to pass. Magic flared to life inside me, pushing against my consciousness, but I battled it back, unwilling to unleash that kind of power, even to protect myself.
I finally understood what we were dealing with, and I worried any show of force would send it back into hiding. Plus, I didn’t exactly relish using a magical uppercut on a baby.
Rylee, however, didn’t have the same restraint.
Screaming like a fucking banshee, he charged into the room, frying pan held out in front of him with both hands. Then, with about as much coordination as a newborn giraffe, he began waving the skillet around, banging it against everything from the dresser to my arms and chest.
Insane? Yes. Effective? Surprisingly, also yes.
The harsh wind didn’t vanish. It just retreated to swirl around the edges of the room, and I sensed a feeling of confusion mixed with cautious humor.
And honestly, same.
Though the danger had passed, Rylee didn’t stop. He continued to swing the pan in wild arcs as he screamed a litany of colorful threats.
“Rylee!” I shouted. “Stop!”
My voice boomed, vibrating the windowpanes, but it did nothing to penetrate the haze of frenzied violence. When he brought the pan down again, swinging it like an ax, I caught him by the arms and wrested the weapon from him, tossing it onto the mattress.
“Rylee!” Grabbing him by the shoulders, I stooped so I could look him in the eyes, and gave him a gentle shake. “Rylee, you can stop. It’s over now.”
Eyes wide, pupils blown, it took a minute for his gaze to focus, and even then, recognition came slowly. Once reasoning returned, however, the panic didn’t fade. Instead, it found something else to focus on.
“Oh, my god,” he breathed. “Your wings. Your feathers. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”
“But your feathers,” he repeated, his eyes straying to the floor. “There’s so many.”
Tawny quills and white down blanketed the carpet, some occasionally getting caught on the breeze and floating up from the floor. It looked a lot worse than it felt, though, and the feathers would grow back in a day or two.
“This is all my fault,” he whispered, his bottom lip quivering as he continued to survey the carnage. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen.”
“Rylee, it’s fine.” I brushed his hair back from his face and stroked his cheeks, trying to comfort him. “It was just a little temper tantrum.”
He finally looked at me again, his expression a mixture of guilt and incredulity. “You got poltergeisted by a fucking ghost—”
“It’s not a ghost.”
