Page 44 of Ghosted (The Ravenwood #1)

THIRTY-FIVE

I watch as Mrs. O’Dell vanishes with a pop of light and smile a little to myself.

Tonight has gone better than all of my past “medium meetings” combined.

I’ve had three guests so far, and each has been able to make contact with the person they were trying to reach.

No one has gotten angry. No one has had to sit in awkward silence while I call out into the in-between, trying to locate their loved one to no avail.

“Alright, Lilah, she’s gone. She wanted me to tell you that she hopes she won’t see you again for a very long time,” I say through the curtain.

Lilah laughs a congested laugh and says, “Thank you for this, Claire. It means the world to me that I was able to speak to my mom one last time.” I’ve gotten so used to being called Claire that I have to be careful not to look when someone calls out to another Claire on the street.

“I’m happy I could help. It seems you were her unfinished business, and now that you two have cleared the air, she’s free to move on,” I share, knowing that it will bring her a bit of peace.

I hear a little broken inhale and tell her to take her time.

This is why I typically leave fifteen minutes or so between appointments, but tonight we’re on a tighter timeline.

Eventually, I hear her stand and she says one last goodbye before the door opens and a wave of noise from the party hits me. She shuts the door behind her, “The Monster Mash” dulled to a low hum once again.

I breathe a relieved sigh. Just with the readings and tips, I’ve already brought in over a thousand dollars. That alone will cover the cost of alcohol and the bartender for the night. And I still have two more to go.

Wren sends me a text letting me know the next person is outside. I gulp down the rest of my water bottle and reply, telling her to lead them in. When the typing bubbles on her side pop up afterward, I frown down at my phone. Wren is many things, but long-winded is rarely one of them.

Wren:

Heads up, your next client is Misha. I tried to talk him out of it, but I couldn’t push too hard or else he would have been suspicious.

Fuck.

I’ve had a few people come in who I regularly speak to, but none that I would consider friends.

Even still, I’ve been extra cautious and used a voice changing device to disguise my voice.

It comes with a little microphone and speaker, so while it works in a pinch, it makes things a bit clunkier.

But doing this for someone I talk to and joke with on a near-daily basis?

Just thinking about Misha being on the other side of the curtain makes my heart pump double-time .

I try to force myself to relax once the door opens with a whoosh . It snicks shut, and the chair on the other side of the curtain creaks as Misha settles in.

I say, “Hello, please, make yourself comfortable. What’s your name?” The voice I’ve chosen is an older woman’s voice that I modify with a slight Boston accent, with elongated vowels and dropped r’s.

“Hi, I’m Misha. It’s nice to meet you.” He pauses, looking for me to fill in my name.

“Claire,” I say.

“Claire. I’m glad to meet you,” his deep voice rumbles. A nervous sigh breaks through the silence of the room and he says, “Okay, I have to admit I’m scared shitless. Whether this works or not, I’m terrified.”

I reply, “You don’t have to do this now if you don’t want to. I’m not going anywhere for the foreseeable future, so you can always come back another time.”

He cracks his knuckles loudly and says, “No. I’ve been wanting to come see you for weeks, ever since I overheard Rae and Wren talked about you.

” I flinch a little at my real name. “I need to do this because if I don’t, I’ll always wonder…

” He trails off, and I fidget in my seat, wanting to move this along so he can get out of here that much faster.

“Let’s try then. Who are you attempting to contact? Can you tell me about them?” I ask.

Misha swallows audibly and begins to detail his uncle for me.

“Ivan was a hard man in every sense of the word. I grew up without my mom, and my dad died when I was only six years old in a freak accident at work.” He takes a breath and continues, “My uncle Ivan, my dad’s brother, was the only living relative I had who was of age and had the ability to take me in, so he did.

He wasn’t happy to do it, but he did out of a sense of obligation.

And, well—let’s just say he let me know how much of a burden I was. ” He clears his throat.

I bow my head, tamping down the despair punching a whole in my gut on his behalf. I feel like I’m betraying him by not letting him know who I am. He’s baring some of his most painful scars for me, and I’m not even telling him the basic truth of my identity.

“Anyway, sorry. You don’t need the whole sordid backstory.

I want to contact him. We had been doing a little better the last few years of his life.

My moving out at seventeen really helped our relationship.

But…We had a fight. A huge one, right before he died.

He found out I was gay and just shut down.

When I tried to get him to talk to me, we ended up blowing up at each other, airing out twenty years’ worth of issues.

It wasn’t even about me coming out to him in the end.

But I was so hurt and so angry that the last words I said to him were, ‘I hope you rot in hell forever you huge fucking asshole.’ And then he had a massive heart attack less than a week later.

So. Yeah. If he’s around, I want to tell him that I didn’t mean it. I want to know that he’s found peace.”

My heart hurts for Misha. He’s such a happy person, I never would have thought he dealt with so much darkness.

I’m at a loss for what to say, but I eventually land on, “I’m so sorry that happened to you.

You know, you don’t have to make his afterlife easier if he couldn’t accept who you were. You don’t owe him that.”

He chuckles softly. “I know that. I’m in my thirties now and am pretty happy with where life is and who I’ve become.

My husband is the love of my life, and I like this town.

It’s just… The only regret I have is how I ended things with my un cle.

He could have done better in a lot of areas, but he was still my only father figure for most of my life.

I know he loved me, he just never knew how to show it.

He and my dad weren’t raised with that kind of love.

If he patted my back, I knew that meant ‘I love you.’ He had the emotional range of an outdated refrigerator.

” We both laugh at that, although I keep mine silent.

“Anyway, I want to make peace with him. So, do you think you can find him?” he asks hopefully.

“I hope so. Let me try. Give me some time to reach out, and if he’s here, I’ll let you know. I’ll be his voice, and I’ll try to make the communication as seamless as possible,” I explain.

When Misha agrees, I close my eyes and cast out my awareness, that inner net unfurling.

I feel Dean just outside the room, flitting about.

I nudge him affectionately with my awareness and then keep going.

Looking for a specific person in the ether is like walking into a vast, dimly lit chamber, searching for a specific candle flame that flickers in its own unique way.

Eventually, I find an essence that feels like Ivan.

I reach out my hand and beckon him forward.

I show him that his nephew is trying to make contact to entice him.

I gasp when he tugs away and race to keep up.

I feel my eyelids flutter as I try to reason with him.

None of this happens in words, more like my consciousness touching his.

When he tries to pull away again, my anger gets the better of me.

I can’t believe he’s unwilling to give his nephew just a little bit of peace—a few minutes of his time.

Misha deserves that. So, I tug harder. And harder.

Until we snap like a rubber band into the room.

I slam back into my body so hard, the breath leaves my lungs.

“Everything okay over there?” Misha asks tentatively .

I fumble with the microphone and pant, “Yes, one moment.” I look up…

and up… and up at the imposing man towering over me.

Ivan scowls down at me with a thunderous expression on his aged face.

He’s built like a brick wall, nearly as wide as he is tall, and if I didn’t know he was mostly incorporeal, I’d be scared out of my mind right now.

“Why did you bring me here?” he seethes at me.

I swallow around my painfully dry throat and whisper, “He deserves some peace. It’s the least you can do.”

Ivan’s face reddens. “The least I can do?” he hisses, “I’ve been stuck here because of that boy.

He’s the one who owes me. And now he’s the one who coerced a damned witch to pull me from the ether.

I hadn’t moved on, but I found as much peace as I could.

And now this?” He waves his massive arm around the space, and my arms pebble with goosebumps as the temperature drops swiftly.

I bristle at being called a witch; first because it’s untrue, and secondly because he says it derisively.

We don’t put up with that in these parts.

“Is—is he here?” Misha asks from the other side of the curtain, snapping my attention away from Ivan.

I turn my glare back on Ivan and say, “Yes.”

“Uncle Ivan, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I never got the chance to apologize, and I just—I’m sorry for what I said. I know we didn’t see eye to eye, but I never actually wanted any harm to come to you,” Misha says quietly, voice wavering.