For the most part, Bronte didn't do angry. She did upset on occasion. And annoyed maybe once in a blue moon. But full-blown angry was not something she experienced often, not with her fair attitude.
When she did reach angry though, even Tolkienesque orcs would have run for cover.
Eyes flashing, she stared down at me with the most repulsed look I had ever seen. I wouldn't have even thought her face could screw into such a scowl. "Purified?"
"Yes," I whispered, still huddled into a ball on the couch. I had my arms wrapped around my legs and I, for whatever macabre reason, couldn't look away from the fire on her face.
"You allowed him in here to purify our spirits?"
Behind me, I heard Oliver let out a pleased chuckle. "You hear that? She said, 'our spirits,' like we fit here. Did you hear that, Cyril?"
"Yes, Oliver, I heard her."
Both Cyril and I were trying to ignore the joviality in his tone. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying Bronte's wrath.
"Go back to the part," Bronte snapped, "where you decided not to tell me about any of this."
Now I had to look away. "I'm sorry, Bronte, I just...I just wanted to have this handled, you know?"
"Handled." She spat the word out like a curse.
"I made a mistake."
"You did a hell of a lot more than that."
I flinched at her tone and her language. She never swore. Never.
I'd really pissed her off.
I continued staring at the ground, not sure what else to do.
"And he said the longer the four of us continue to live in close proximity to each other, the greater the risk of summoning that monster back here?"
"Yes."
"Because it had happened to him before? And he'd shown you the scars?"
"Yes."
"And knowing how afraid he was, knowing that he'd already been hurt once, you thought it'd be a good idea to invite him over for a little tête-à-tête?"
"Yes, but—"
"Idiot," she snapped, cutting me off. "You're supposed to be smart, Stella, but that was a real stupid thing to do."
"I wanted to talk with him more."
"Then you invite him out for coffee or something. A neutral site. You don't bring him to exactly where he wants to exorcise the ghosts—you do know that's what purification is, don't you? Exorcising them?"
"But I thought Cyril and Oliver might have questions too."
She ground her teeth together. "Then you write them down and take them to him later."
"I—yes, you're right. I should have done that."
She took in a sharp breath. I winced, expecting another verbal attack. And her words were angry. But the content surprised me. "And the bruises on your arms?"
I raised my eyes up enough to see the splotchy purple marks around my wrists. My instinct was to jerk them out of her sight but it was too late for that. She'd already seen them. And I'd already told her what Noah had done while he was here.
Behind me, the ghosts were absolutely silent.
When she sighed, I looked up to see her posture had fallen. Sagging shoulders, the fire drained from her eyes, her lips pulled into a frown. Her eyes met mine and for a minute, we just stared at each other.
I opened my mouth to apologize again when she held up a hand to cut me off. Then, without a word, she trudged into her room.
I wanted her to slam her bedroom door. I wanted the wall to rattle from the impact of it—violent anger somehow seemed easier to deal with than icy distance.
But it just clicked shut as softly as it always did.
"Crap," I mumbled, leaning my head back against the couch.
She'd looked so betrayed. So hurt.
And she had every reason to. I'd essentially let a madman in our apartment to kill Oliver and Cyril. All without telling her a thing. Keeping her in the dark.
I'd meant it to protect her, to keep her from making the tough decisions. On the surface. Beyond that, if I really examined my thoughts, I knew exactly why I hadn't told her.
I hadn't wanted her to stop me from letting Noah purify them.
Cyril had called me out on it. And for some reason, having the ghosts know that about me was different than Bronte. They could see my cowardice because they wouldn't be around long enough for it to matter. But Bronte?
God, I'd called Noah a coward, but what did that make me?
"I'll talk to her," Oliver said, his voice floating past me toward Bronte's closed door.
Then I felt a chill tingle down my arm. It didn't move, didn't brush past, but stayed. A cool patch just barely grazing my arm.
"You ok?" Cyril asked.
I shrugged and filled my voice with mock enthusiasm. "She wasn't as excited about the newfound superpowers as I'd hoped."
"She'll get there. Maybe she's just jealous her own superpowers haven't developed yet?" he played along.
"Maybe this is the impetus of our epic superpower rivalry?"
"Could be. A clash of psychic titans."
"Psychic titans?"
"Oh, do you think psychic juggernauts sounds better?"
I felt a wave of appreciation for him. For not blaming me for trying to have him purified. For not kicking me when I already felt down. For just sitting there, ready to agree with whatever I said. For trying to make me feel better.
I leaned in toward him just a little closer. "No, you're right. Psychic titans does sound much better."
"She'll forgive you, you know."
"Really?"
"I've been friends with Oliver for over one hundred years. We've fought more times than I can count. But we always forgiven each other afterward."
"And you don't think that has anything to do with the fact that you've been alone with each other for the past one hundred years?"
He made a razzberry sound. "Of course not. It's all down to my persuasive charm."
"Obviously." I sighed. "I screwed up, Cyril."
His tone softened. "But at least you recognize that you did. That's a step toward mending the situation." When I didn't answer, he sighed. "She'll forgive you, Stella. Just wait."
I did wait. All the rest of the day. But she never came out of her room.
And I was far too cowardly to knock on her bedroom door. As I slid into bed, Cyril assured me that she'd want to talk in the morning. That, most likely, Oliver was convincing her to forgive me.
But when I woke up the next morning, she'd already left.
And had taken the pocket watch with her.