Page 23 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
“We could release them one by one. You said you’ve taken care of the crone, right? We’ll handle the rest before we move forward with the Lazarus spell—”
“Lazarus Effect.”
“Whatever—it’s fuckin’ necromancy. Anyway, then we can handle Lincoln and Marchosias.”
Colin leaned against the truck. “Have you ever released a spirit before?”
“I’ve seen it done.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
They scraped their bottom lip with their teeth. Pride tightened their mouth into a pinched frown, and they stayed stubbornly silent.
“Releasing one spirit? Fine. But your current tenants have kept us awake for days. Sleeplessness equals weakness, weakness equals a longer recovery time for your magic and my power, and a longer recovery time allows Marchosias to kick the spiritual door wide open and invite more wanderers into your house. We need help, Bishop.”
“From a Viking witch,” they grumbled.
“Give me another option and we’ll take it.”
Their breath plumed the air. “Yeah, I know.”
“What sounds good for dinner?” He wanted to reach for their hand.
Bishop blinked. He anticipated an argument, but thankfully, they sighed and shrugged. “Chili verde,” they said. “There’s a hole-in-the-wall taqueria downtown. Cheap margaritas, free chips and salsa.”
“Done,” Colin said, and slid into the passenger’s seat.
Vibrant picado banners drooped in arches from the ceiling at Cocina De León. Heat from the kitchen filled the small dining room, and Colin watched Bishop sip gingerly from a salt-rimmed margarita. They followed a soccer game playing on the flat screen mounted in the corner, pupils dilated in the low light, and fingered through the basket of chips centered on the table.
“So, what brought you to Gideon?” Colin asked, attempting to make conversation after the awkward exchange at the metaphysical shop.
Bishop crunched an ice cube. “We wanted a fresh start after being overseas. My mom works at a bakery in Austin, so I know she’s secure, and Lincoln wasn’t close with his family—didn’t care to rebuild burned bridges. Gideon came cheap, felt cozy, had a small-town vibe with access to a nearby city. Just made sense.” They glanced away from the game and settled their gaze on Colin’s face. “Where are you from?”
Colin scooped chunky salsa onto a chip and popped it into his mouth. “Little desert town called Temecula in Southern California. Vineyards, wineries, and churches, mostly.”
“Sounds bougie,” Bishop said. They sighed through their nose. “Sometimes I miss home. The people, the food, the heat.”
“Doesn’t it get warm here?”
“Summer, yeah. But nothing like Texas. I used to smack the bottom of my boots to shake out scorpions. Used to be tan, too,” they said, rolling their sleeve to their elbow.
Colin dragged his milky fingertips along their wrist. “You’re still tan.”
“Compared to you, maybe,” Bishop mumbled, lips tipped into a shallow smile. “Can’t say I don’t like this little mountain town, but…” They shrugged and lifted their fingers to brush Colin’s palm. “I miss blazing afternoons, backyard cookouts, and plastic kiddie pools.”
“You visit, don’t you?” He played with Bishop’s hand, tangling and untangling their fingers, dusting his knuckles across their pulse, trailing his pinky along the blue vein striping their skin. Like this, Colin wondered about loneliness, how houses longed for occupancy and hearts yearned to be held.
They nodded. “Not as much as I should, but yeah. Do you have family in California?”
Colin stilled. His fingers framed Bishop’s palm like an arachnid, caging their hand against the table. They traced his heartline. Stroked the webbing at the base of each digit.
Most people never asked about his family. Clients typically shied from the topic, colleagues were few and far between, and romantic conquests hardly lasted longer than a night. He cleared the tightness from his throat.
“I do,” he said, allowing the statement to linger. “My sister and I usually get together for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I text my mother, but we aren’t particularly close. My father and I haven’t spoken in twelve years.”
Bishop’s mouth shaped the word—twelve—before they blinked, nodding slowly. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be,” he said, and pulled his fingers across their palm, concealing his twitchy hands in his lap. A server dropped their plates at the table, chili verde for Bishop, tortilla soup for Colin. He squeezed lime into his steaming bowl and stirred. Kept his eyes on the shredded chicken and reddish broth, and tried to dismiss Bishop’s eyes, flicking curiously around his face, prying at him.
