The Past-Life Chronicles

7

I push my waves over my shoulders and apply one last, generous squirt of hairspray. Stay, I urge my hair. It's perfect right here, the glistening raven ringlets cascading down the neck of my red velveteen overcoat. I found the piece a few years ago at an antique shop. I think it's from the sixties. It has a badass collar and two silver buttons that fasten at the waist, and goes great over my black lace peasant top and plain black leggings.

I flick off the bathroom light and head up the hall to the coat closet. My knee-high boots await on the shoe rack inside, probably resenting me for never wearing them. They look hot as hell, but they pinch my toes and are deadly uncomfortable after about an hour. Yet I'm trying to dress like a real, functioning adult lately. What was the saying? 'Beauty is pain'?

As I finish zipping up the sides of my boots, Henry appears at the top of the stairs, laptop and charger in his arms, half a bagel dangling from his mouth. He takes hold of the bagel with his hand. "Where are you going?"

"To see Heather."

"Oh." He seems not to care that he's getting cream cheese on his fingers. "Send her my best."

"Sure." I smooth the bottom of my overcoat over the tops of my boots.

"You got a ride?" asks Henry. "If not, I'm free tonight."

You're free every night. But I indicate his laptop. "You look busy. And thanks, but a friend is driving me."

On cue, the flash of headlights in the driveway announces Mason's arrival. I swing my handbag across my chest. "That's them. Gotta go."

"Well, uh...don't have too much fun." Henry half-smiles.

"It's Heather. Trust me, I won't."

I leave through the front door and greet the evening. The crisp smell of a firepit and burning leaves bends my lips into a smile. I love that smell. It reminds me of Samhain and candlelit rituals with Mom.

I slide into the low passenger's seat of Mason's sedan. An MP3 player is plugged into the stereo, and I instantly recognize the song playing. "Sisters of Mercy? Sweet."

"It's my goth rock playlist." Mason smiles behind the wheel, glancing over at me. "I figured I'd put it on, since I know you like H.I.M."

That was thoughtful. Stupidly, I tuck my hair behind my ear, only to remember I've just sprayed it into place and have likely messed it up. Defeated, I drop my hand. "Do you know how to get to Savory?"

"The steakhouse? Yeah, I know where that is." He watches the rearview mirror as he slowly reverses the sedan down the driveway. Just then, a neighbor's car zooms past, headlights blaring, and Mason hits the brake. I jerk forward with an entirely overreactive gasp. Automatically, Mason's hand finds my knee.

There's a long silence between us, the only sound Andrew Eldritch's voice gurgling through the speakers about buh-lack planets, black worlds.

Mason's hand remains on my knee, making it tingle beneath my leggings. At last, he speaks. "You okay?"

"I'm—ridiculous. Sorry."

He replaces has hand upon the steering wheel. "I was a little concerned about this, after your regression today. Things could be coming back more strongly for you. That's why I wanted you to lay low tonight." He backs out of the driveway without interruption this time. As he navigates through the shadowy neighborhood, I breathe to calm my racing heart. "But, family comes first. I understand."

We don't say anything more for the next couple of minutes. When the song ends, the MP3 player shuffles to a new one, and Peter Steele's sexy voice begins to croon as if straight from the underworld.