Page 2 of Giving Up The Ghost
“Probably because you spent twenty minutes looking for the gay erotica section.”
Ezra rolled his eyes. “Look, he could’ve just said he didn’t stock Maurice and I’d have let it go.”
“Excuse me,” the man in front of us hissed, leaning to press his face close to the gap in the seats. “We donotneed to hear about this!”
Ezra leaned in, grinning at him. “Yeah, I know. So why don’t you pop your headphones on and stop eavesdropping, nosy parker?”
The man blustered, ducking away and sinking lower in his seat.
“Twat,” Oscar muttered.
I felt a tiny smile coming on, despite the jostling of the plane. “Assuming we survive the flight, where else do I need to see while we’re here, then?”
“Dolman’s,” Ezra said firmly. “They have the best fucking cake.”
Oscar grinned fondly. “The Roman ruins near Aldcote. They’re not as grand as the more touristy ones but the few times I went to the house Charlotte’s staying at, back when I’d first gone to live with Grandmere and Grandfather, I remember running about in the ruins and finding a few coins. And one very annoyed Roman Domina.”
“Oh! The London Bridge tour!” Ezra piped in. “The haunted one.” He made spooky fingers at me and Oscar, pulling a face. “Ooooooh, I’m the ghost of the tour guide’s history teacher, bemoaning their lack of attention in class which led them to tell people absolute shite about the bridge. Ooooooooh!”
I couldn’t stop the snort that time. Oscar ducked his chin, trying to hide his own smile with a mutter of, “Don’t encourage him. He’ll think he’s funny.”
“I’m fucking hilarious.”
The soft click of the intercom cut through the tension of the cabin. “Ah, this is your, uh, captain speaking and we’re clearing this patch of weather in the next few moments. We ask that you remain in your seats until the seatbelt signs are off. We should be clear of the turbulence soon.”
The screens on the seatbacks flickered with the next hard jolt. “The weather begs to differ,” I mumbled. “Shit. I can’t wait to get up again. My head, hip, and ass are all killing me.”
Oscar gently but firmly disentangled our fingers and then wrapped his hand around mine again, this time keeping his hand safe from my death grip. “Did I tell you what Charlotte said about the family heirlooms she had for me? Apparently, she and her mother found several boxes at the old family pile in Rouen—not nearly as impressive as it sounds, I promise. It’s only about a hundred and fifty years old and?—”
“Oh, only a hundred and fifty,” I teased shakily. The plane was evening out, the bumps further and further apart. But still, I clung to his hand. Ezra was already drowsing again, his phone clutched tight in one hand, ready for the moment we landed and cleared the gate. “How pedestrian.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he growled with no malice, giving me a jab to the ribs. “Just for that, I’m making you ride in the back while Ezra drives later.”
Thankfully, he did not.
* * *
By the time we landed—almosttwenty minutes late and one more bad patch of turbulence later that left the flight crew looking waxy and stunned—none of us were in a teasing mood. Oscar collected our rental car while Ezra and I wrestled our luggage to the sidewalk at passenger pick-up.
Well, I say we. It was mostly Ezra. Part of my new reality, since the fall in Colorado, was getting used to my limitations. The occasional migraine with auras, or a random hemiplegic variety just for kicks, my decreased mobility, the fact I couldn’t do something as simple as elbow my way through a crowd to grab a suitcase without it ending with me wanting to cut my leg off at the hip to stop the searing pain… It all meant I was very aware of the fact I was changed, and it was frustrating as hell.
Ezra shoved one of the smaller bags at me and flashed me a toothy grin. “Your hands aren’t broken. Take this one. And don’t look inside. It’s got a present from Harrison in there and I didn’t want the TSA to see it.”
“Oh, ew,” I muttered, holding the bag away from my torso.
His grin collapsed into a cackle. “Fuck off, it’s just toiletries, mate. I’m jerking your chain.” He shook his head, giving me a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Should’ve seen your face though. Damn it, I wish I’d thought to take a picture—would’ve been great for a blog post! C’mon. The reception in here blows and I want to call Harrison before we get on the road.”
Ezra found himself a little nook outside between two pillars, out of the rumble and roar of traffic and speakers. Oscar gave him a fond, mildly exasperated look and nudged me back into the next nook over. “Well, hello,” I said, grinning down at him. “Come here often?”
“Why, Doctor Weems, are you flirting with me?”
A thrilling rendition ofReturn to Senderbuzzed between us and Oscar sighed. “I don’t have to be psychic to know that’s Heinrich.” Closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his forehead, he affected an airy, plummy voice. “And he’s sent four… no…six! Six emails since we departed Houston!”
I poked him in the ribs—far more gently than Ezra would have done, thank you very much. “But you’re not psychic. You’re a medium. I have an entire section in my research on the difference and why the two are often conflated. It started in the early Victorian, when?—”
Oscar pressed his fingers gently over my lips. “Julian. Darling. My love. I was being silly.”
“I know,” I grumbled, muffled by his touch. “And I was sharing interesting information that touches on your field of work as well as your, well,you-ness.”
