Page 11 of Trick Me
I catch movement in my peripheral vision. A translucent figure by the window, an elderly woman, Victorian dress, looking lost. Another by the door, a young man, modern clothes, bullet wound in his chest. They’re always there if I look for them, especially on Halloween.
I carefully don’t make eye contact with either ghost. Rule number one of being a medium: Don’t acknowledge them unless you’re ready to deal with them.
The woman smiles, slow and sharp. “Come, pretty girl. Take your turn.”
She says it softly, but her voice carries low and is threaded with power, sliding into the bones of the room like a whispered command. Every head turns. The crowd shifts, attention locking on to me.
I hesitate. I hadn’t planned to participate. Hadn’t planned on being seen.
The woman tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “You, of all people, should know… fate doesn’t wait for permission.”
I glance around. No one else steps forward. They’re watching me, not just with curiosity but with wariness. Recognition. I’m not one of them, not entirely, but they can feel the death I carry.
Something tightens in my chest, and I step forward.
I’m in front of her, then she presses an apple into my hand.
“Perfect,” she croaks, as if this is the outcome she’s been waiting for all along.
I take it.
“I don’t really believe in fate,” I say.
“Belief isn’t required,” she murmurs, just for me. “Only participation.”
My hands move without waiting for my mind to catch up. The knife slides beneath the skin of the apple like it knows the path. Like it’s done this before. Maybe it has. Maybe I have.
The peel unwinds in one perfect, gleaming coil.
The air in the room changes. Charged. Expectant.
The crowd has gone utterly silent. I can feel their attention crawling over me, slick and inescapable.
“Now,” the woman says louder. “Don’t think. Just throw.”
I toss the peel over my shoulder.
A heartbeat later, there’s a sound. Not an impact. Not a splash. Something deeper. A vibration. A growl that isn’t human, isn’t performative. It’s real.
I turn.
The crowd behind me has already shifted again, clearing space around the source of the sound. And there he is.
The apple peel lies at his feet.
Tall. Broad. A man built like violence waiting for a reason. Hair dark and messy, framing a face too brutal to be pretty, too striking to be forgettable. Eyes like melted amber, and right now, they’re glowing red at the edges, a silent warning.
He looks at the peel. Then at me.
A slow breath drags through his nose, and his jaw tenses.
There’s a damp smear on his black jacket, darkened just enough to be noticeable. A thin sliver of apple and some tiny bits cling to the fabric. His shirt underneath is unbuttoned at the top, enough to show a slash of golden-brown skin and the edge of a tattoo curling up from beneath.
He wears tailored black slacks, clean, pressed, expensive. But there’s something in the way he wears them that makes the elegance feel like an afterthought, like a cage he could tear off at any second.
And then, he bares his teeth.
Not a smile. A warning.
