Read Online Spirits of Ash and Foam by Greg Weisman - Free Book Online

might still be there, watching her every move. Of course, no one was staying in Room Six now. She chided herself and opened her bedroom door.
    She let Charlie in and then plopped down on her unmade bed. (Rain rarely made her own bed, feeling she made more than her fair share at the Nitaino. Her mother attributed this to laziness, but Rain just called it logic.) She had left enough space for Charlie to sit beside her. He hesitated. Then crossed the room and sat at her desk chair.
    They waited in tense silence for the sun to set.
    Then Rain said, “Oh!” and slipped the snake charm off her arm, setting it carefully on her nightstand. They both stared at it as it did absolutely nothing. Seconds ticked by.
    Charlie suddenly remembered, “Oh, I warned Miranda about Renée.”
    â€œOh, good.” Then, “How’d she take it?”
    â€œI think she felt pretty bad.”
    â€œYeah.”
    More silence. Rain felt like she was in Mrs. Beachum’s class at the end of the day, waiting for that last bell to ring, when the minute hand on the clock over the chalkboard moved so slowly, it sometimes felt like it was about to click backward.
    Rain said, “I’m moving up to ’Bastian’s old room on Wednesday. Um, assuming he doesn’t mind.”
    â€œThat’s cool.”
    â€œYeah.”
    Daylight was fading in the room. Then, just as Rain was about to stand and hit the light switch, she saw it: a soft white glow emanating from the zemi on the nightstand. Of course, only she could see it, and an unaware Charlie clicked on her desk lamp.
    Like a genie from a very different kind of lamp, the late Sebastian Bohique emerged in all his translucent glory. He wasn’t exactly a dead ringer for the grandfather who’d been part of Rain’s life for the past thirteen years, an old man of way past eighty with long gray hair and soft gray eyes. No, that octogenarian look just didn’t fit ’Bastian’s self-image. Instead, this was the ghost Rain had dubbed the Dark Man: twenty-one years old and in his prime, neat as a pin in his World War II Army Air Forces uniform and bomber jacket. His black hair was cut short in back, while in front it swooped up like hawk feathers. His eyes were two orbs of polished onyx. That’s how ’Bastian Bohique saw himself, how perhaps he had always seen himself. And now, now that he was dead and “living” by his own personal definition, this was ’Bastian Bohique once more.
    He spoke. That is, his lips moved. But the words were indistinct, impossible to grasp, fleeing from Rain like smoke or the tide. She couldn’t hear him.
    Mentally, she kicked herself. She had thought it would be awkward for ’Bastian to emerge while the zemi was on her arm, but she had forgotten she needed to be holding or wearing it in order to hear him clearly.
    Charlie, watching her carefully, said, “Is he here? What’s he saying?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, snatching the snake charm off the nightstand. “I took the armband off.”
    â€œWell, why’d you do that?”
    She rolled her eyes at him, and he rolled his right back.
    â€™Bastian watched all this with some amusement. It was somewhat reassuring that even after his death, so little had changed in the world he hadn’t quite left behind. He spoke again. “Can you hear me now?”
    Rain beamed. “Yes! Loud and clear. I mean, roger that, Captain Bohique!” She saluted.
    He saluted back. “Acknowledged, Lieutenant Raindrop.”
    Grandfather and granddaughter fought the impulse to hug. Both wanted it badly but knew it to be impossible. ’Bastian had no substance, and their arms would simply pass right through each other. They had quickly learned that the failed attempt was sadder and more frustrating than not trying to hug at all.
    Charlie saw his friend’s bittersweet smile. Concentrating, even squinting, he tried to