Wake

Chapter 18

"I missed my best friend. We're a perfect dynamic duo, you know. Like Batman and Robin. Sherlock and Watson. Hall and Oates."

"Hall and Oates?"

Lucie let out a laugh. "Yeah, you know, the music dudes."

I shook my head. She was illogical in the most charming ways, just like she'd always been. "Sure," I allowed. "Hall and Oates."
Lucie sat up. "Do you want something? Like breakfast, or coffee? You look hungry."

I blinked at her in surprise, drawing myself up beside her. I wondered if I really did look hungry; it was odd, considering I wasn't, never really was these days. I rubbed my eyes, rolling off the bed and to my feet. Sunlight filtered in through the half-shut blinds in uneven, golden shafts, glittering off the trophies, turning the walls the purest, brightest turquoise. I considered myself a night owl, but after last night, I'd never been more thankful to see the morning sun.

"No," I said to Lucie. "I'm not hungry. It's fine."

Her eyes narrowed, and then she just let out a huff and began to stomp out, though her footfalls merely kissed the wood. "You're too perfect, Vincent Sylvester. I'm making coffee anyway."

I cringed, calling after her, "Please don't use my middle name."

She was halfway down the hall, but I still heard her: "Whatever you say, Vincent Sylvester!"

Sure enough, when I came downstairs later with teeth cleaned, hair brushed, and body dressed, Lucie was pouring steaming black coffee into a mug marked with a cursive H. I was sure it had been one of Mom's Christmas presents three or so years ago, probably given to her by Cian. His fallback was always a mug; I had about ten of them from him, printed with just about everything from cartoon monkeys to quotes like I woke up like this.

At the thought of him, a little sore spot in my chest appeared. I pushed it all down.

I slid onto a barstool, yawning. I was bit jealous, admittedly, at how Lucie could touch things with such ease. As a ghost, that had been my biggest struggle, but I had to keep reminding myself she wasn't a ghost at all. Like I'd told my brother, she still had a chance. I had to figure out a way to return her to her body, to wake her up. Maybe then--once I had both her and Cian--everything would be alright for once.

Lucie set the full mug down on the counter, staring at it.

"Are you going to drink it?" I asked.

She bit her lip. "I can't. I can't eat or drink anything. Trust me; it was the first thing I tried."
Of course it would be. It had probably been the first thing I'd tried, too. Food was always a priority. "Then why'd you make it?"

"I felt like it," she said, then paused. "You should drink it."

"I told you I didn't want any."

"But I made it for you."

"You just told me you made it because you felt like it, Lucie."

She grunted, shaking a fist in the air. "I'm just trying to be useful, here! Drink the coffee, Vinny."

I smirked at her. "No."

"Vinny."

"It's fine. I'll pass."

"Vincent. Sylv--"

"--don't you say it--"

"--ester."

I cringed again, but I was on the edge of laughter. The noise never came, however, as we were interrupted by the shrilling of the landline. I stared for a moment, as I hadn't exactly remembered we had a landline--we hadn't received calls on it for years, at least.

Lucie's and my eyes both snapped towards it. I hated phone calls with a passion, but gestured for her to press the phone into my palm anyway. "Hello?" I answered.

"Turn on the TV. Channel 4. Right now."

I recognized the voice as Caprice's, though she didn't sound nearly as enthusiastic as she usually did, just distressed and urgent. My eyes met Lucie's; I relayed Caprice's orders to her without question. She scrambled for the television remote. Into the phone, I said, "Caprice, is everything okay?"

Caprice huffed. "Oh, far from it."

Lucie had switched the TV on. Everything in the kitchen seemed to go still, the coffee cold, the morning hazy. The reporter's voice seemed to drone on in the background; I saw the images, the blood on the walls, the blurred bodies, the shattered glass covering the floors. It was a massacre in a bar, the reporter was saying, that happened just last night.

I knew exactly who had done it, too.

Caprice asked, "Are you seeing this?"

"Unfortunately," I replied, my eyes on Lucie's face. Her eyes were round, her lips quivering, the coffee pitcher still clutched to her chest. She looked about as afraid as I felt. Maybe, in the back of our minds, we'd hoped our Cian was still hanging on. But a Cian who would do something like this was not him at all. "There weren't any survivors?"

"I don't think so," she said. "It was awful. I felt all of their deaths, one by one."

I exhaled, letting out a groan. Not able to take a second more of the terror on Lucie's face, I reached over and hit the power button on the remote. The TV screen went dark. Lucie didn't turn, but I saw her shoulders slump, as if the flame of her will had been extinguished.

"We have to get in there," I decided. "Into the crime scene. Pick Lucie and me up ASAP, Caprice."

"Wait, Lazarus, don't you think--"

I didn't stick around to hear the rest of the sentence. I ended the phone call, touring around the kitchen island to Lucie. She was still shaking a bit, and it took her a considerable amount of effort to lift her eyes to mine. I said, "Hey. It's alright. We're gonna stop him, together. I just need your help."

Lucie swallowed, her eyes fluttering shut. "But Cian's--God, what can I possibly do?"

"You're gonna get us into that bar," I said. "That's what you're going to do."