Dead Spell Read Online Free Page B

a hissing breath through her teeth. “Shhh…”
    Lance twitched and rolled over. His back was scratched from shoulder to hip and there were tiny specks of dried blood on the sheet beneath him. She checked in the mirror for marks of her own—wrists, neck, back: all clear.
    “Sleep tight,” she whispered and put on his Iron Maiden tee-shirt, a micro mini, and his coat that reeked of stale smoke and patchouli.
    She wanted a hot shower now more than ever. It had been days of cold ones, and unless her mother reinstated the electricity, tomorrow would be no different. She picked up his car keys and her cell phone off the dresser and went outside to dial.
    “Brea, it’s me.”
    “Harmony? It’s two-thirty in the morning.” Her voice was distant and groggy.
    “Your phone on vibrate?”
    “Yeah, don’t worry. You didn’t wake her.”
    Joan, Brea’s mother, was a notoriously light sleeper.
    “Good. Grab your case and meet me out front in fifteen.”
    “Wh…”
    She hung up before Brea had the chance to say “no” and climbed into the driver’s seat of Lance’s old Grand Prix. The cool leather seat felt good against the post-coital soreness and she let out a relieved sigh.
    The shellacked wood of the old Ouija board on the passenger’s seat next to her gleamed in the streetlight .
    She took an unopened pack of menthols from the glove compartment and lit one, pulling up to the first stop sign before turning on the headlights and blasting the death metal as loud as she could stand it. The right rear speaker was blown and hummed like angry bees. A fat man, one of her mother’s regulars, looked up at the sound, his knuckles raised to bang on the trailer door.
    “Maybe now she’ll pay the bill,” Harmony said and pulled on to Route 32, keeping an eye on the rearview for cops.

 
     
    9 .
     
    Brea groaned, rolled out of bed, and stuffed two pillows under the comforter as a decoy. Her reflection in the full-length mirror looked too tired to be familiar. Bruise-like half circles underlined her slate blue eyes and her hair stood on end.
    “I can’t believe I’m doing this again.”
    This was the second time in a week that Harmony had her sneaking out of the house and she wasn’t up to another hike; five miles in darkness, her feet so cold they felt frostbitten. No, thank you. Words she hadn’t said to Harmony in ten years of friendship no matter how much her mother wanted her to.
    She put on a pair of Capri-length sweatpants and a hoodie and felt between her box spring and mattress for the art portfolio and charcoal tin she used to do the gravestone rubbings they called “rubs”. She leaned the stiff leather bag against her bed frame and tucked in the loose pages spilling from the strained zipper.
    They had been going to Oakwood Cemetery for the past two years and she’d collected almost every headstone, some of the older ones twice. The old keystone style was her favorite.
    Her cell phone vibrated in her sweatshirt pocket and she jumped. It was a text message from Harmony that said she was outside. Brea pressed her face to the window and saw the unfamiliar car parked curbside.
    “Oh, no.”
    Harmony clicked on the dim dome light and waved from the driver’s seat. The look on her face said trouble.
    “What did you do now, Harmony?”
    Brea rolled her eyes and adjusted the long portfolio strap so it rested diagonal across her chest. She lifted her bedroom window so as not to wake her mother and stepped out barefoot on the roof. Shoes would be slippery. She pushed the screen back in place and shook the loose shingle gravel from her numbing feet. The strap of her bag cut into her shoulder as she swung over the guttered ledge to a knotty Oak branch overhanging the roof, and down to the grass where she put on her flip-flops.
    Harmony waved frantically as if to say, “hurry up” which only made Brea more nervous.
    “God, I’m coming.” Cigarette smoke rolled out of the passenger’s side door like fog. Brea