Chapter 16:
SPENCER'S POV
The city's ambient glow did little to illuminate the hollow feeling inside me. I walked down the deserted road, my footsteps echoing my solitude. I probably had no place to sleep. My penthouse was a death trap, Allen's place was out of the option—he slept like the walking dead and would be an easy target—and Megan's was still a crime scene I couldn't explain.
One question burned in my mind, a relentless, paranoid whisper. How do they always know my location? My hand instinctively placed in my pockets, searching for a non-existent tracking device. There was only one sanctuary left, one person who, by blood, should be my safest harbor.
"There is only one place I can think of going right now," I said, the words feeling like a betrayal of my own thoughts. "Spain's residence. My brother."
Wednesday, who had been a silent, shimmering presence beside me, simply shrugged. "Okay."
But then she did something she never had before. She moved directly in front of me, forcing me to stop walking. Her spectral form seemed more solid in the dim light, her dark eyes holding mine with an unusual gravity.
"Thank you."She suddenly said to my shock
I raised a brow, my face mixing into a look of pure disbelief. Come again, what did you just say?"I said
"Thank you," she repeated, her voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "For assisting me to avenge. I mean… I thought you were not going to kill her."
I rolled my eyes, trying to shield myself with a facade of nonchalance from the weight of what I'd done. "I didn't kill her because of you. I was never going to kill her. But she pointed the gun at me, so I only did some self-defense." A weak, tired smile touched my lips. "But you're welcome."
We stood at the curb to book a cab. I would have done it online, but my phone was at the bottom of the river after my wild jump from the bridge. Suddenly, Wednesday went rigid. Her chain materialized in a whisper of cold air, the butcher's knife unrolling as a motorcycle sped toward us. At first, I thought nothing of it—until the passenger on the back raised his arm, the streetlight glinting off the barrel of a gun pointed directly at my chest from the distance.
Wednesday didn't hesitate. She held unto the chain viciously, and swung her chain. The knife flew like a bullet, embedding itself with a sickening thunk in the biker's helmet. The bike swerved violently, lost control, and slammed into a wall. The second man was thrown clear, his body smashing against the pavement with a brutal crunch.
"Assassins," Wednesday stated, her voice cold as grave dirt.
"Again?"I cried out kinda frustrated
The man who had been thrown groaned, struggling to push himself up. He was alive. Wednesday walked toward him, and I followed, my heart a frantic drum in my chest. Her butcher's knife dripped crimson onto the asphalt. With a flick of her wrist, she recalled the blade and sent it flying again, this time striking the wall mere inches from the man's ear. He gasped, frozen in sheer, pants-wetting fright.
I squatted in front of him, my courage a thin line over abject terror. I grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at me. "Now, tell me who sent you."
"Go to hell," he groaned, a spark of defiance in his pain-glazed eyes.
"Tell me now, or I will make my ghost ruin your face," I threatened.
He looked at the floating chain, his doubt warring with his fear. "There is no such thing as ghosts," he muttered, a desperate prayer.
"Wednesday," I said, standing up. "Do your thing."
She pulled the chain. The knife unstuck itself from the wall and, in the same motion, the blade slashed horizontally across the man's cheek and nose. He screamed, a raw, guttural sound of unbearable pain, doubling over as blood poured from the deep gash.
"Now tell me who sent you," Wednesday's voice echoed around him, disembodied and terrifying.
The man shivered, his eyes wild as he searched the empty air for the source of the voice. A grim smile touched my lips. "Tell me, and I'll tell my ghost to spare your life."
"Your brother!" he sobbed, breaking completely. "Spain Postlethwaith! I swear! Please, let me leave!"
I stood up, the world tilting on its axis. Dumbfounded. Shock. The name was a physical blow. Spain? My own brother had been behind all this? All this while?
"Hell no," I breathed out loud. "Why would Spain ever want to have me killed?"
"Screw siblings," Wednesday said, coming to my side. "siblings are the worst enemies."
I staggered back, leaving the whimpering assassin to his fate. I began walking away, a numb emptiness spreading through me, quickly being filled by a boiling, fierce rage. I'm going to f***** kill that bastard,* I thought, the vision of my brother's face crystalizing in my mind.
Wednesday pulled my hand, her cold touch a slight anchor. "I know how you feel. But going there right now will not get him killed. It will only get you killed. Calm your nerves. We will come up with a plan to access him without you harming yourself."
I looked down, my fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. I was burning, but her logic was a bucket of cold water. "You know what?" she said, her tone shifting to something lighter, almost playful. "Let's go have ice cream. It will help cool your anger right now."
The absurdity of it made me smile. We found a 24-hour diner, and I ordered as many buckets of ice cream as we could physically finish—chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, a monument of frozen sugar. Afterwards, we lodged in an expensive hotel. I bought new clothes, shedding the stink of garbage and blood.
Sitting on the plush carpet of the hotel room, surrounded by empty ice cream containers, we were just… us. Wednesday and Spencer. We talked and laughed like normal humans would. This was the first real, easy conversation we had ever had.
"You should see the way I aimed Casrina's head, and puff!" I said, making a gun gesture with my hand.
Wednesday laughed, a genuine, melodic sound I'd never heard before. I found myself joining in.
"Did you see the assassin's face?" she replied, her eyes sparkling. "He was damn scared! I bet he did pee in his pants!"
We laughed again, the sound echoing in the luxurious room. As I scooped another spoonful of vanilla, I realized something. I was beginning to enjoy Wednesday's company. Having her around was something I had never had for the past years. If she hadn't been with me these last few days, I would have been dead long ago. I somehow began to feel that the October 31st night wasn't just an incident. It was Fate. Something, or someone, had wanted us to be together.
I looked at Wednesday, really looked at her. The way she laughed, her dark beauty, the way her spectral form held a light of its own—everything about her amused me and gave me goosebumps. And in that moment, I felt a profound, aching wish that she was still alive.
"I wish I had been there 17 years ago," I suddenly said, the words leaving my lips before I could stop them. "I would have saved your life."
The room went utterly silent. The laughter died in her throat. She looked at me keenly, her expression unreadable,the new silence giving room to many nasty thoughts. Slowly, driven by a force I didn't understand, I reached out and cupped her cold, ethereal cheeks in my hands. A cringy, electric feeling shot through my chest, a mix of fear, longing, and profound sadness.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she placed her translucent hand over mine. A strange, good sensation ran up my arm, not warmth, but a connection, an understanding.
"These few days have been the best for me than 17 years ago," she whispered.
"How old are you?" I asked, pulling my hand back to take a shaky scoop of ice cream, needing to break the intensity.
"I'm 20," she said.
"No, you were 20, 17 years ago. So from my calculations, you should be 37 years old now."
She laughed, the sound like wind chimes. "We don't really count numbers there in the ghost realm. The dead is dead. No aging."
"I'm 24," I replied. "Does age really matter?, it's just a number right?" I asked, and I leaned closer to her face.
Wednesday leaned backwards, a flicker of caution in her eyes. "You are aware you do have a cute girlfriend?" she asked, a reminder of the world outside this room.
I smiled, a slow, sure smile. "I do. But you are more cute."
And then I did it. I closed the distance and slowly placed my lips on hers. They were cold, devoid of life, a stark contrast to the living warmth I was used to. It felt weird, and wrong, and dead. But as I kissed her, sucking gently on her lips, I seemed to enjoy every bit of it. The flavor her lips gave me was something I had never tasted—like frost and forgotten memories, and it was intoxicating.
All my fears were cut out the moment she kissed me back, reciprocating to every move I made.
After a small eternity, she pulled away. I was breathing heavily, my heart hammering against my ribs. She looked at me with an infinite sadness. Slowly, she took my hand and placed it squarely on her chest, right where her heart should be.
I felt nothing. No pumping. No heartbeat. Nothing. Only a still, cold, eternal silence.
DEAD.
Her face held a sincere, profound apology. "I'm sorry, Spencer," she whispered, her voice breaking. "But I am dead. I can't feel what you feel." She placed her hand on my chest, over my frantically beating heart, a heartbreaking mirror of our impossible situation.
I looked into her cold, beautiful eyes, my own vision blurring with unshed tears. The hope that had blossomed in my chest withered and died, leaving a void more profound than any I had ever known.
"It's okay," I whispered, my voice thick with an emotion that threatened to shatter me. "If I am the only one that feels it,then that's fine,"I got up and walked up to the balcony.
And for the first time in my life, I felt a sadness so deep, so absolute, that it felt like my own heart had stopped beating with hers.....
To be continued.....