word out about shady ghosts—I mean, at-risk ghosts. I’m proof that they’re not hopeless, that they shouldn’t be locked up in little boxes. It’s fucking cruel.”
I repeated his exact words, including his self-correction and profanity, hoping to earn back a little cred with the reporters—not to mention my professional integrity.
Sweat trickled over my ribs, from the heat of the lights and the fear that any moment, my cover as the First would be blown.
“I also want to form a new band,” Logan added, “with post-Shifters. I’m dying to make music again. Um, no pun intended.”
I recited what he’d said, then realized that his new singing career would bring even more scrutiny. He’d be the subject of interviews and exposés, and sooner or later he’d let something slip. Someone would dig up my records and learn I was born at the Shift. Maybe they would arrive at the same conclusion I had: that my birth might have caused it.
My head filled with a roar of panic. I didn’t even hear the next question and answer.
“Aura,” Logan said. “Did you hear me? Are you okay?”
I shook my head, wanting to beg him to pass on now before he ruined everything.
“Excuse me.” A tall woman with a sleek brunette twist sidled between me and the reporters. She pulled a badge out of her black pin-striped suit and displayed it to them. “I’m Nicola Hughes from the Department of Metaphysical Purity’s Office of Public Affairs. Any questions for the Salvatore or Keeley families will henceforth be submitted through me.”
One of the reporters raised his hand. “Why can’t we—”
“I’m sorry,” Nicola said, “no questions at this time.” Smiling, she handed a stack of business cards to the reporter on her left. “Be a dear and pass these out? Thank you.” Then she turned to me, Gina, and the Keeleys. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help.”
We sat at the long wooden table in the Green Derby’s private party room. Logan took his place between me and his brother Dylan on one side of the table, with the rest of their family—all pre-Shifters—lined up on the other side. I resisted the urge to move away from Logan, since the depth of my anger could raise suspicion.
Nicola stood at the door, ushering in the waiter, who paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkened room before he started serving drinks.
“This round is on me,” she said. “I’m sure you all need refreshment after that episode.”
Logan rested his chin on his hand, watching the waiter serve his father a pint of Guinness. He’d once told me that perpetual sobriety was one of the worst parts of being dead, ignoring the fact that it was a combination of alcohol and drugs that had killed him.
After the waiter left, Nicola shut the door. “Now.” She strutted to the head of the table. “The last thing you want is more DMP bullshit, am I right? So I’ll be as frank with you as I am obscure with the press.”
“Hmph,” Gina said to my left.
“The department suffered a public relations nightmare when Logan shaded at this bar on January third. And we deserved all the blame. The Obsidian agents who assaulted Aura and Dylan have been disciplined, but the tarnish to the department’s image was significant. After all, everyone—not just post-Shifters—can see Aura and Dylan in the online videos.”
Yep. Over one hundred thousand views, with five thousand comments, mostly thumbs-up for our flailing attempt to stop the Obsidian agents from locking Logan in a tiny black box.
Nicola continued. “So what better way to boost our image than to help the very ghost we’re famous for persecuting?”
“Help him how?” Mrs. Keeley twisted the silver chain of her Celtic cross necklace. “The only thing he needs is to pass on.”
“Until he’s ready to pass on,” Nicola said, “he needs protection from the paparazzi. The media have no regard for the privacy of ordinary citizens.”
I wrinkled my nose at her hypocrisy. Still, I
I repeated his exact words, including his self-correction and profanity, hoping to earn back a little cred with the reporters—not to mention my professional integrity.
Sweat trickled over my ribs, from the heat of the lights and the fear that any moment, my cover as the First would be blown.
“I also want to form a new band,” Logan added, “with post-Shifters. I’m dying to make music again. Um, no pun intended.”
I recited what he’d said, then realized that his new singing career would bring even more scrutiny. He’d be the subject of interviews and exposés, and sooner or later he’d let something slip. Someone would dig up my records and learn I was born at the Shift. Maybe they would arrive at the same conclusion I had: that my birth might have caused it.
My head filled with a roar of panic. I didn’t even hear the next question and answer.
“Aura,” Logan said. “Did you hear me? Are you okay?”
I shook my head, wanting to beg him to pass on now before he ruined everything.
“Excuse me.” A tall woman with a sleek brunette twist sidled between me and the reporters. She pulled a badge out of her black pin-striped suit and displayed it to them. “I’m Nicola Hughes from the Department of Metaphysical Purity’s Office of Public Affairs. Any questions for the Salvatore or Keeley families will henceforth be submitted through me.”
One of the reporters raised his hand. “Why can’t we—”
“I’m sorry,” Nicola said, “no questions at this time.” Smiling, she handed a stack of business cards to the reporter on her left. “Be a dear and pass these out? Thank you.” Then she turned to me, Gina, and the Keeleys. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help.”
We sat at the long wooden table in the Green Derby’s private party room. Logan took his place between me and his brother Dylan on one side of the table, with the rest of their family—all pre-Shifters—lined up on the other side. I resisted the urge to move away from Logan, since the depth of my anger could raise suspicion.
Nicola stood at the door, ushering in the waiter, who paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkened room before he started serving drinks.
“This round is on me,” she said. “I’m sure you all need refreshment after that episode.”
Logan rested his chin on his hand, watching the waiter serve his father a pint of Guinness. He’d once told me that perpetual sobriety was one of the worst parts of being dead, ignoring the fact that it was a combination of alcohol and drugs that had killed him.
After the waiter left, Nicola shut the door. “Now.” She strutted to the head of the table. “The last thing you want is more DMP bullshit, am I right? So I’ll be as frank with you as I am obscure with the press.”
“Hmph,” Gina said to my left.
“The department suffered a public relations nightmare when Logan shaded at this bar on January third. And we deserved all the blame. The Obsidian agents who assaulted Aura and Dylan have been disciplined, but the tarnish to the department’s image was significant. After all, everyone—not just post-Shifters—can see Aura and Dylan in the online videos.”
Yep. Over one hundred thousand views, with five thousand comments, mostly thumbs-up for our flailing attempt to stop the Obsidian agents from locking Logan in a tiny black box.
Nicola continued. “So what better way to boost our image than to help the very ghost we’re famous for persecuting?”
“Help him how?” Mrs. Keeley twisted the silver chain of her Celtic cross necklace. “The only thing he needs is to pass on.”
“Until he’s ready to pass on,” Nicola said, “he needs protection from the paparazzi. The media have no regard for the privacy of ordinary citizens.”
I wrinkled my nose at her hypocrisy. Still, I
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