Page 39 of After Life
“Mmm. Like those people who get obsessive crushes on pop stars or actors. They’re convinced it’s love, or some other deep connection. People experiencing it are convinced there’s a connection between them and the object of their obsession, and the opportunity to prove it would make everything in their fantasies come true.”
“That sounds dangerous,” I muttered, popping a crisp in my mouth. “Like those people who murder their favorite singer because they didn’t answer fan mail or something.”
“Something like that. Usually it’s not so extreme, just horribly awkward and embarrassing for the person experiencing it. But other times it can be...” He paused, turning his attention to the ceiling where the sound of creaking floorboards told us someone was pacing. “It can be a bigger problem.”
Chapter 8 — Julian
The house quieted after lunch. Whatever had been creaking above us settled and the storm outside grew heavier. “At least the power’s still on.” I sighed, making my way carefully back down the stairs after changing into something dry and comfortable. The storm had made the temperatures drop considerably, between getting rained on and the house’s already cold nature, I was shivering. Oscar gave my ensemble of a sweater, long-sleeve t-shirt, and fuzzy pajama bottoms with my thickest socks (a gag-gift from CeCe one birthday—they had her face emblazoned all over them. Joke was on her because the fuzzy material made her look like a Muppet covered in hair.)
Oscar waggled his phone at me before resuming his search. “I texted Ezra to see if he knew of any legit online sources to dig into the sigil situation, but he hasn’t replied. So, I tried my own hand at it and, truth be told, I’m not as good as he is but I think I might have found something.”
Propping my cane against the end table, I took up a spot beside Oscar on the sofa. He snuggled into my side and held the phone between us, open to a website I’d never heard of but seemed to be nothing but user-submitted stories that reeked of Main Character Syndrome. “This here,” Oscar said, indicating one of the top posts. “They’re an undergrad student at LSU doing some project on sympathetic magic and posted to this folklore board asking about sigil use. They ended up with some examples that look a lot like what we found.”
I skimmed the entry, then read it again and frowned. “The response mentions something they call homebrew sigils but gives no examples.”
Oscar sighed. “It’s the best I could find, really. But see the picture they attached? It looks very similar to the style we saw in the book and on that paper.”
He wasn’t wrong—it was uneven, tip-tilted, and if I looked hard, I could see the shapes of interwoven letters.
“So...” Oscar trailed off, both of us glancing at the window as a particularly violent lightning and thunder combination made the windows rattle behind the shutters. “I don’t suppose you know anyone in your academic corner of the universe that has knowledge of symbols and the like?”
He sounded both hopeful and wary, not quite meeting my eyes as he fidgeted with the hem of his waistcoat.
“Tomlinson,” I admitted. “But I can start poking around on some databases, and in some academic journals.”
“Tomlinson. From University of the Upper Coast,” he reiterated. “Right.”
He’d said it conversationally but there was a hint of something in his tone. Hurt, maybe? Caution? I closed the book and laced my fingers with his. “Oscar, I’m not leaving.”
“I didn’t think—” He sighed, closed his eyes, and ducked his head against my shoulder. When he spoke again, it was muffled. “Okay, I thought maybe you might. But I wouldn’t blame you, you know? You’re a researcher. A scientist. And they’re offering you an opportunity to return to that life.”
I shifted then, ducking my face down so I could look at him, kiss him on the lips as he started to speak again. “And who says I want to?”
“I can tell,” he whispered. “You’re interested.”
“Interest doesn’t imply intent.”
He frowned. “I’m being ridiculous, I know, but—”
“Stop,” I murmured, stroking my fingers along his jaw. He pressed his face into my palm and closed his eyes. “We’re figuring us out both as the show and as people. Things have gone so fast—”
“Are you... Is that bad?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. But right now, there are things we’re not going to agree on, things we’re not going to understand about one another. And we may never do. But the important part is we try, and we accept that sometimes we’re just going to not get it, why one of us is interested in something or believes in one thing or another.”
“Like your love of that godawful mustard,” he muttered, trying to lighten the weight of the moment.
“I stand by my condiment choices. And...” I trailed off, kissing him again. “As intriguing as that offer is, I can’t see a way to do it and remain on the show with you, and I would much rather remain with you.”
Oscar’s face was warm with his blush, pressing against mine as we leaned in together for a long, quiet moment.
Upstairs, something rattled, then a heavy thud sounded again and again and again.
“Shit,” I groaned, pulling away reluctantly. “The shutters!”
Oscar closed his eyes, took a breath, and marshaled himself, pushing away gently and getting to his feet. “I’ll go check. I wish we could track down Ray-Don to fix it since I’m about as handy with tools as a fish.”
“That’s a weird analogy.”
