Page 17 of Hex

I fume, annoyed that she’s back to being completely unhelpful.

“What do you mean you can’t see it?” I ask her. “It’s not so unlike a ghost. You can see other ghosts. Why can’t you see the poltergeist?”

She sighs heavily, rolling her eyes. She paces the room, looking for the words to explain it to me. “Poltergeists are cunning and clever. They are only seen when they want to be seen. They’re like secret agents or ninjas.”

“What do you know about ninjas?” I interject.

“Keep up,” she yells, snapping her little fingers at me. “These spirits like to play with us, trap us. Like we’re all little mice and it’s a big cat, chasing us around.”

“And this is the thing that got into my room?” I confirm.

She looks at me with wide eyes and nods. “You’re just another mouse to it, Hex. It knows all about you. It wants to destroy you.”

“How do you know this if you can’t see it?” I growl, annoyed.

“Because it’s been after you from the moment it entered the spirit world. We’ve all felt it. Didn’t that ghost in the graveyard tell you that we think you’re our only hope?”

I scratch my head, vaguely remembering him. I was a lot more distracted by meeting Juliana. Listening to the diatribe of an old ghost wasn’t my highest priority.

“Either you trap the poltergeist and expel it from the earth, or it will kill you. We feel its pull toward you.”

“Why me?” I ask, feeling a chill that has nothing to do with her presence.

“Because you can see it. You’re the only one that can stop it. It wants to end you before you end it.”

With that ominous warning, she disappears, sinking down into the floorboards. In her wake, I look around my room with new eyes. The spirit was here and it was after me, so why didn’t it take anything? Or set a trap for me?

Just like last night, I find nothing amiss, besides the rock that broke my window. I’ve been keeping it by my bedside, a weapon if I need it in the middle of the night. But now that I know the poltergeist is after me, specifically, I think I’d better replace it with Mama’s paralytic ghost grenade.

CHAPTERTEN

Aweek has gone by and nothing exciting has happened. No more attacks, no more warnings from the ghost. It’s as if the poltergeist has vanished, but I know better. It’s like Cassandra said, we’re all mice waiting for the cat to get us.

I tried to explain that to Pocus the morning after Cassandra came to me, but he was too wrapped up in his misery. He hadn’t been away from Daisy since the day she was born. Without her, he’s mopey and constantly agitated. He’s like a junkie looking for his next fix.

Seer is equally engrossed in his own problems, and I can’t help but notice how Tory seems to be wasting away to nothing before our eyes. Her face gets thinner and she looks more tired each morning. She’s stopped drinking coffee altogether, saying it’s making her too on edge.

Our morning routine has been hijacked by daily sitreps with Pocus, who’s too drawn and distracted to care what any of us finds. Which has been a big fat load of nothing. The police haven’t identified the shooter from the club, and there’s a tri-statewide manhunt to find him. They have no leads and beg the public for their help.

No more attacks have happened on the house, which is theoretically a good thing, but it leaves the men more on edge and afraid they’ll miss the next thing. No one has slept well since finding out Anderson died, and it’s taking a toll on us.

Pocus didn’t tell anyone else about the poltergeist, choosing to leave it between the five of us in the room. Even Snake doesn’t know what to look for when Pocus asks him to search for unusual activity. It’s New Orleans, there’s always unusual activity happening.

And the ghosts remain silent. Cassandra hasn’t come to see me again, hiding in the walls again. They’re all hiding these days. I used to fight through dozens of ghosts every time I left the house, but the yard has been deadly quiet since the vandalism. I’m running out of options.

In seven days, I’ve walked through every abandoned home, cemetery, and bayou. They’re eerily quiet, devoid of the social scene the ghosts are usually so proud of. It isn’t only our house ghosts, it’s every ghost throughout the city. They’re staying away at the risk of being caught by the poltergeist.

If I do find a stray ghost here or there, it’s always the same kind. One of the old guards, a stubborn male ghost who thinks his compatriots are being sissies. These spirits have fought in battles dating back to the wars with Native Americans, and they say they will not be intimidated by some “young buck who just showed up on the scene.”

Still, as the only spirits I can find, I ask them to carry my message. If the ghosts are hiding, they need to know they’ll be safe at the club. Theoretically, there’s power in numbers. They’ll be safer congregated than spread out across the city, ready to be picked apart by the poltergeist.

I’m exhausted and frustrated, tired of only finding the orneriest ghosts in the city. I slink into a bar near the clubhouse to drown my sorrows. I can’t go home yet. Pocus has asked me every day what I’ve found, and every day I tell him I’ve gotten nothing but cow shit. I’m angry with the ghosts, though they deserve my pity. They’re scared too.

I down two shots of bourbon when I hear an angelic voice speaking to me.

“Are you stalking me?” she asks.

I turn to find Juliana pulling out the stool next to me to sit.

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