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Authors: Kristi Charish
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furniture around while he was gone, worrying a week had in fact been a month.
“Lee Ling’s been redecorating. Just wait till you see inside. Now move, I don’t have all night,” I added when Nate blocked the door, the tips of his ghost Converse sneakers brushing the ground. Heknew I hated walking through him. Roommates had to have some boundaries, and besides, the rush of cold unnerves me.
Nate got out of my way then fell in step—or float—beside me. “Nice to see you too, K. I’ve been doing all right. Keeping a positive attitude and all. Found out my ex-girlfriend married my drummer. Appreciate the heads-up on that one.”
I winced. I’d meant to break it to him gently. “If you hadn’t spent the last week moping, I’d have told you.” Well, maybe. “And my week’s been worse.”
“How the hell do you get worse than the evil ex marrying your drummer?”
“Oh, come on. That is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. It’s not even the worst thing that’s happened to you in the last two months. And besides, weren’t they already sleeping together before you died?”
Nate frowned. “Yeah, but now they’re getting married. That’s totally different. Look, Kincaid, I don’t ask for much—”
“You ask me for shit all the time.”
“Just take me over to Mindy’s. Five minutes, just so I can talk to her—”
“ No .”
“ Please , Kincaid?”
“Nate, I said no!” Talking to his ex-bandmates and -girlfriend was the stupidest idea he’d had in a long while. Not everyone comes back as a ghost; in fact, most people don’t. Ghosts tend to be those who died young and/or violently, though no one knows exactly why, physics-wise that is. Not only had Nate been young, he’d drowned. It doesn’t matter whether it’s your fault or someone else’s, drowning is always violent, especially where the lungs are concerned.
He’d died on December 31, 1998, a couple of years before I’d hit junior high and been introduced to the wonderful world of peer pressure and acne. Grunge was in full swing and Nathan Cade, lead singer and front man for Dead Men Tell No Tails (Nate’s spelling sure as hell hadn’t improved any since he’d died), was partying as if there was no end in sight. On New Year’s Eve, he’d had themisfortune to pass out drunk on the front of his boat and slide into the ice-cold Seattle harbour waters. His body never turned up.
“Kincaid, you’re killing me,” he pleaded.
I shook my head. A ghost’s impulse control is minimal and Nate had had very little to begin with. “Nate, stop it with the bad puns.”
“There is no way your week’s been worse than mine.”
I stopped short of opening the back door. I crossed my arms and turned to face him. “Three hours ago I got a call about a stray zombie wandering the streets of Seattle.”
His eyes narrowed like he was trying to figure out if I’d made that up. “No shit?”
“I’ve got Lee watching him right now, and I’ve spent the last hour trying to get enough brains into him to stop him going feral while I figure out who made him.”
Nate’s brown eyes turned a darker, ghost-grey shade. Some ghosts can tell if you’re lying. Nate was one of them.
“Shit,” he said. “Okay, you win.” He paused, but then couldn’t resist: “See, it’s not so hard admitting you’re wrong.”
I swung the door open. “Inside, twinkletoes. You’re helping me babysit.”
“What do I get out of it?”
“Beer?” I said.
“Keep talking.”
I shook my head. If men are the sum of their parts, ghosts, who have no parts, are the sum of their vices. If someone had told me I’d be rooming with a co-dependent ex–rock star…
Two years ago, back when I could still raise zombies for a living, grunge hit a resurgence. Open ads to find the ghost of Nathan Cade flooded the paranormal trade journals. Only problem was, no one could find Nate because he wasn’t interested in being found.
Prompted by the challenge and
“Lee Ling’s been redecorating. Just wait till you see inside. Now move, I don’t have all night,” I added when Nate blocked the door, the tips of his ghost Converse sneakers brushing the ground. Heknew I hated walking through him. Roommates had to have some boundaries, and besides, the rush of cold unnerves me.
Nate got out of my way then fell in step—or float—beside me. “Nice to see you too, K. I’ve been doing all right. Keeping a positive attitude and all. Found out my ex-girlfriend married my drummer. Appreciate the heads-up on that one.”
I winced. I’d meant to break it to him gently. “If you hadn’t spent the last week moping, I’d have told you.” Well, maybe. “And my week’s been worse.”
“How the hell do you get worse than the evil ex marrying your drummer?”
“Oh, come on. That is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. It’s not even the worst thing that’s happened to you in the last two months. And besides, weren’t they already sleeping together before you died?”
Nate frowned. “Yeah, but now they’re getting married. That’s totally different. Look, Kincaid, I don’t ask for much—”
“You ask me for shit all the time.”
“Just take me over to Mindy’s. Five minutes, just so I can talk to her—”
“ No .”
“ Please , Kincaid?”
“Nate, I said no!” Talking to his ex-bandmates and -girlfriend was the stupidest idea he’d had in a long while. Not everyone comes back as a ghost; in fact, most people don’t. Ghosts tend to be those who died young and/or violently, though no one knows exactly why, physics-wise that is. Not only had Nate been young, he’d drowned. It doesn’t matter whether it’s your fault or someone else’s, drowning is always violent, especially where the lungs are concerned.
He’d died on December 31, 1998, a couple of years before I’d hit junior high and been introduced to the wonderful world of peer pressure and acne. Grunge was in full swing and Nathan Cade, lead singer and front man for Dead Men Tell No Tails (Nate’s spelling sure as hell hadn’t improved any since he’d died), was partying as if there was no end in sight. On New Year’s Eve, he’d had themisfortune to pass out drunk on the front of his boat and slide into the ice-cold Seattle harbour waters. His body never turned up.
“Kincaid, you’re killing me,” he pleaded.
I shook my head. A ghost’s impulse control is minimal and Nate had had very little to begin with. “Nate, stop it with the bad puns.”
“There is no way your week’s been worse than mine.”
I stopped short of opening the back door. I crossed my arms and turned to face him. “Three hours ago I got a call about a stray zombie wandering the streets of Seattle.”
His eyes narrowed like he was trying to figure out if I’d made that up. “No shit?”
“I’ve got Lee watching him right now, and I’ve spent the last hour trying to get enough brains into him to stop him going feral while I figure out who made him.”
Nate’s brown eyes turned a darker, ghost-grey shade. Some ghosts can tell if you’re lying. Nate was one of them.
“Shit,” he said. “Okay, you win.” He paused, but then couldn’t resist: “See, it’s not so hard admitting you’re wrong.”
I swung the door open. “Inside, twinkletoes. You’re helping me babysit.”
“What do I get out of it?”
“Beer?” I said.
“Keep talking.”
I shook my head. If men are the sum of their parts, ghosts, who have no parts, are the sum of their vices. If someone had told me I’d be rooming with a co-dependent ex–rock star…
Two years ago, back when I could still raise zombies for a living, grunge hit a resurgence. Open ads to find the ghost of Nathan Cade flooded the paranormal trade journals. Only problem was, no one could find Nate because he wasn’t interested in being found.
Prompted by the challenge and
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