Intrinsical

  “What exchange?” Brent asked, sounding lost.

  My heard jerked up. “Me for Neal and your body.”

  Brent’s eyes lightened to cinnamon. “Are you insane? You don’t actually think I’d do that, do you?” I was too stunned to answer and Brent frowned at me. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “I— I . . .”

  “First, I would never be able to live with myself if I did that.”

  “But think about what you’re giving up. Do you really understand that? You must . . . you seemed so tempted.”

  Brent let out a deep sigh. “Seeing Neal like that really threw me off balance.” Brent rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and frowned. “I was tempted. Really tempted.” He bowed his head and guiltily peeked at me from the corner of his eye. “I hate having to admit to that.” He sighed and held up his hand to stop my obligatory words of comfort. “Don’t. It sucked to really see myself for the first time and understand how weak I was. To know the things I would consider.” He visibly shuddered.

  Over the quiet chirping of crickets came the sound of a dog howling from the city below. From where I stood, I could see Corona’s lights twinkling in the evening air. In the homes, people slept, unworried about curses, ghosts and turning over a friend to save a beloved brother.

  Brent came beside me, staring toward the town. “I was tempted, but it didn’t take long to know I couldn’t accept his offer. When he manhandled—spirit-handled you,” he corrected with a humorless laugh, “I knew I couldn’t let him hurt you. Neal himself would never forgive me. No matter what Thomas promised, I know I would never forget handing you over to him and I couldn’t live with that. And I don’t trust him. He’ll never keep his word. Not to mention. . . I like you, Yara.”

  “Well, I thought . . .” I began, trailing off.

  Brent grinned sarcastically. “Well, that might be the first problem.”

  I gave him a dirty look. “I thought you were considering his offer.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I said that to buy us time.” I felt Brent’s gaze heavy on me as he asked softly, “You really thought I was going to agree to his trade?”

  Not wanting to answer, I changed the subject. “So what are we going to do?”

  Brent’s started nibbling on his nails. “I haven’t figured that out yet. But we have to find a way to free Neal.”

  I had to ask, “How is any of this even possible?”

  “Would you laugh if I said some sort of magic? Even worse— dark magic?” Brent grunted roughly. “Calling it magic cheapens it though; it makes it sounds trivial. Like some Vegas act.”

  “Maybe, but I can’t think of a better term. You’re right though; if it involves death, it’s dark magic.”

  Brent gave me a knowing look, his eyebrows knit together as he studied my face silently for a moment. “You sound like you know something on the subject.”

  My knee-jerk reactions tried to kick in, shielding me from embarrassment, but obviously things had changed. If any one person deserved the truth of what I knew, it was Brent. After all, he was a part of this, too; this wasn’t just about me anymore.

  “I’m not an expert,” I said, “but I do know something about magic, or whatever you want to call it.” I paused and looked at him, waiting to see if he was going to freak out or laugh or even worse, start the ‘you’re crazy’ talk again. He didn’t do any of that, though; he just kept looking at me in respectful, non-judgmental silence, so I pressed on. “I told you that I’m from Brazil.” He nodded. “Vovó, my grandmother, she’s like a wise woman in her town, making poultices to help the living with their grief, burning herbs to help ghosts cross over. She’s able to see spirits and interact with them. She’s almost like a . . . shaman . . . sort of . . . She’s all about helping the spirits and those around her.”

  Brent pushed the sleeves up on his sweater. “Cool.”

  I started pacing around. “Something’s wrong with this, though. I’ve heard lots of stories from her over the years, everything from possession to voodoo, but I’ve never heard of anyone being able to force someone out of their body and then steal it.”

  “Possession? Voodoo? Man, what must family dinner be like at your house?”

  For a moment I was in my family’s warm kitchen, eating feijoada, drinking guaraná, listening to Vovó’s stories, laughing and joking. I longed for it so fiercely I could almost imagine myself there. The image faded into Brent, who was still watching me.

  “Family dinners were never dull,” I said. “I heard about some weird stuff. Enough to know that whatever happened to you is dark magic, evil.”

  “Hmm,” Brent murmured, thinking. “So what should we call it then? I can’t call it magic.”

  “Trickery?”

  Brent laughed bitterly. “Yes, trickery works. Him having my body is a trick that’s fooling everyone.”

  I squeezed his arm.

  The outlines of the tall campus buildings could be seen over the tops of the trees. Figures moved behind the windows and I wondered if they had heard about my death yet. My whole life, world, existence had altered only a few hours ago. It felt more like years than hours but it was still the same night that I had died. My life was over but maybe Brent’s wasn’t.

  “Brent, it is a trick! You may not have your body, but you’re not really dead. He said as much himself.” I turned toward him. “We just have to get this other spirit out of your body and then you can move back in.”

  “It won’t work,” Brent said, sounding defeated.

  “Why?” I demanded, tapping my lips with my fingers.

  “It just won’t.” Brent drew his legs to him, sitting cross-legged, and rested his hands on his knees. “It might even make things worse.”

  My brow furrowed. “Were you always such a pessimist? I mean, we’re already dead; how much worse could it get? I’m kind of thinking it can only improve.”

  “I’m being realistic.”

  “Okay, how can it get worse?”

  Brent chewed on his nail again. “Other people might get hurt. Let’s learn from my disastrous example. I died, I tried to fix it by reaching out to you, and that got you killed. The prosecution rests.”

  I pushed my bangs back off my forehead. “Okay, yeah. Well maybe we won’t get anyone else involved. It can still work.”

  “There are other reasons it won’t work. First, we aren’t warriors in a fantasy novel.”

  “Says the man who can astral project and was kicked out of his own body by another spirit.”

  Brent rolled his eyes at me. “Second, we have no idea how to get him out.”

  I waved my hand, conceding he had a small point. “Let’s say we figure it out. It should work, right?”

  Brent nodded slowly. “If we managed to do that . . . maybe.” He groaned at my eager expression. “Calm down. I didn’t mean to get you all riled up; I was just thinking out loud.” He gave me a playfully disgusted look. “Were you always so optimistic? Why, of all the people I could have as a companion here in limbo, would it be someone so . . . happy?” He made it sound like optimism was some sort of contagious disease. I gave him my brightest smile. He shook his head, trying not to return it.

  The realness of what we were talking about settled around me, making me shiver. “If that guy is responsible for your brother’s death, then you’re right— he might be responsible for the rest of the curse.”

  Without touching it, Brent lifted a stone from the ground and tossed it between his hands. “That’s sorta what I’m thinking.”

  “So the Pendrell Curse . . . is . . .”

  Brent dropped his hands and the rock fell through his legs to the ground. “Real,” he admitted, “and they should really be called the Pendrell Murders.” He tried to loosen the tie on his uniform. “Couldn’t I have died without this stupid thing? I can’t get it off.”

  “So, we’re going to uncover the truth behind the Pendrell Curse.”

  Brent held up his finger as
he corrected with a rough voice, “No, we’re going to break the curse.”

  “How?”

  Brent’s declaration was full of passion and promise; it showed on his face, but at my question it crumpled. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, at least we have a goal.”

  “It does no good to have a goal if we don’t have a plan.” Brent smiled ruefully at my sudden frown. “But yes, at least we have a goal.” He fought a moment not to return my re-established grin but finally gave in with a chuckle.

  Chapter 10

  A few minutes after discovering we had a goal but no plan, Brent was laughing heartily at a pathetic joke I had made. It reminded me of the first day on campus when I had thought his laughter sounded like a melody. It did now, even more so. It was music, beautiful, in a manly way, like a sensual, slow jazz. I loved jazz.

  “Jazz, huh?” Brent asked, his voice suddenly husky.

  “Uh . . . what?”

  “My laugh reminds you of jazz? Is there anything about me you don’t find attractive?” He rubbed his hand over his lips trying to cover his smirk. “So tell me, how much do you love jazz?”

  I’m sure my face was pinker than the inside of a watermelon. “I didn’t say any of that.”

  “You didn’t have to say it, Yara, I could hear it.” Brent tapped the side of his head. “I can hear your thoughts.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, but I am,” he said, completely straight-faced.

  My eyes opened wide in surprise. “So you can read my thoughts?”

  “And you can read mine.” He hadn’t moved his lips; I had just known what he was thinking, his voice clearly in my head.

  “How?”

  Brent stood up and stretched slowly. “No, idea. It’s like suddenly you were just there.”

  Whoa . . . how is this happening?

  “I’m not sure. Maybe after you die there’s no more need for secrets.”

  “Can all dead people read each others thoughts?”

  “I’m not really an authority— I’ve only been dead a few weeks.

  But Phil and I could do it, too, although it’s easier with you.”

  The whole limbo thing was going to take some time to process; there was too much to take in. Brent was handling everything in stride. Suddenly, I remembered I wasn’t the only one who had recently lost their life. Brent had died, too, and yet while he was trying to help care for me, I had taken no thought at all for him. I was selfishly wrapped up in myself.

  “Are you okay, Brent?”

  “I’m doing all right,” he answered, his voice cautious.

  “You seem to be handling all this much better than I am,” I said. He rolled his eyes at me. “Well, you are! How are you being so calm about it? Aren’t you upset at all?”

  He sighed in frustration. “Of course I was.” He strode between the trees, walking with purpose. “It’s just that I’ve had more time to deal with this than you. You’re handling it much better than I did actually.”

  “Not that much more,” I snapped, trailing behind. “You don’t have to patronize me!”

  “I wasn’t,” he said, turning toward me and walking backward. As he got further away I could feel an undeniable pull from him, like an unseen force tethering us together. The connection was stretched the further he got from me. It wasn’t something visible, but a very real, stabbing pain pierced my gut, like someone had anchored a barbed hook in my stomach and was pulling me toward Brent. I bent over clutching my stomach. I fought the urge to follow Brent, though I knew intrinsically that the only way to ease the uncomfortable throbbing was to be close to him again. Finally, with a defeated grunt, I chased after Brent. He was waiting for me, resting against an unused smudge pot.

  “That’s new,” he commented, holding his stomach and wincing. “Guess we’ll be sticking close to each other, huh? Phil and I didn’t have this.” He gave me a wink. “Have to admit I’m glad it’s you and not him; you’re cuter.” Brent studied me intently. “You get angry when you’re scared.”

  “I’m not scared,” I said, my eyes suddenly watery. I thought I had been doing a great job of ignoring the terror that had been gnawing at me all night.

  “You don’t have to pretend. I can feel how scared you are.” He lowered his voice, “It’s okay to be scared, Yara.”

  “You can feel it?” I asked, refusing to admit how frightened I was, even to myself.

  “Yep. Wow, just knowing that’s how you deal with being scared helps me understand you so much better,” he said, walking again and disappearing behind the trees. The invisible hook in my gut was back. I closed my eyes, willing the tension and pain in my stomach to dim.

  But I could still see Brent, his essence glowing behind my lids. To some internal compass, he was North, my guiding star. Following my Brent GPS led me to him in the Headmaster’s garden where he had taken me the night after the dance. He was sitting on the edge of the gazebo with his eyes closed, his head following my movement. My tension unwound, the pain easing the closer to him I got. Opening his eyes, he watched me, sifting through my emotions until I cleared my throat loudly.

  “Sorry.” Brent laughed sheepishly. “It’s just so . . . interesting. You’re really sad and scared right now and you’re trying to direct all of those emotions into making a plan.”

  “It doesn’t do good to dwell on things you can’t change. It’s better to do something useful.”

  “But not being able to deal with them is just making you angry.”

  “Cut me some slack . . . I just died here, okay?” I said, gesturing wildly with my hands. I felt suddenly a little morbid at how casually I had addressed my death. “Am I supposed to curl into a ball and cry? How will that help?”

  “Okay, slack given, but only because you just died.”

  I walked toward the edge of the garden, aware of how strongly he thought I needed to come to grips with everything. Just thinking of Cherie’s haunted look the last time I saw her or imagining my family’s faces caused acute emotional ache in my chest and I folded my arms around my middle, curling around them. I knew my feelings were simmering inside me like a beaker on a Bunsen burner and would eventually start to boil over, but I couldn’t dwell on that now so I thrust them to the back of my mind. I promised myself that when I was ready I would reach out to my loved ones and somehow let them know that I still existed and was okay.

  That idea comforted me slightly, but my heart was hit with a sudden tidal wave of pain as I thought of my poor parents and sister having to deal with another loss, burying another member of the family. They didn’t deserve that. I buried my head in my hands and finally allowed myself ten minutes to cry and curse at the heavens. Anger, grief, and tears ruled me. And I let them.

  After my allotted time I took a deep breath and found it odd that I still felt the need to breathe.

  “I think it’s habit,” Brent explained. “Your mind says you need to breathe, so you do. We have a pulse, we cry— and, thanks to you, I can tell we still blush. It’s almost like muscle memory and phantom limbs. But your all-important heart no longer beats.”

  A quiet thump-thump played in the silence. “But your heart is still beating. I can hear it.”

  His fingers went to the left side of his chest, checking. “It does, faintly, like it’s miles away.”

  “Does that mean that I’m right that—”

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Brent said, cutting me off. He rubbed his chin. “You timed out how long you were going to wallow?” Brent’s face was incredulous as he shook his head. He hadn’t moved from the fountain, he was leaning forward, his arms resting on his legs. “Grief doesn’t work that way. You know that, right?”

  “It does for me,” I replied defiantly, wiping the remaining tears from my face.

  “If you say so.”

  “What’s to grieve? We’re going to fix this,” I said, inhaling deeply the crisp night air.

  I could almost taste the oranges, the avocados, even the
flowers. I knew, without a doubt, somewhere on the other side of campus, chrysanthemums were still blooming. In amazement, I looked around, trying to gauge if I could pinpoint the directions of the smells. I could. It was similar to how aware I had been of everything when I projected, but much stronger.

  Even though it was nighttime, I could see every detail and every color that surrounded me. Everything was so vivid and intense that I gasped at the beauty of my surroundings, as if seeing it for the first time. Nothing was one simple hue, but made up of subtle shades, highlights, and lowlights. I thought I had appreciated it before, but I realized my human senses had been too limited to recognize its true brilliance.

  I sank onto a bench overhung by the branches of a maple tree. Its leaves blazed with color that could have inspired a sonnet; I wished I were a poet and could capture its beauty in words. Heartbeats of the young birds in a nest in the top of the tree made their way to my ears, bringing a smile to my lips.

  “It is kind of amazing, isn’t it?” Brent asked.

  I nodded distractedly. “Okay, so let’s work on our plan,” I said, putting my problem-solving cap back on. “There’s this really great bookstore down the street from my old school. It should have everything we need to know about astral projection.”

  “Well, that would be great if we could get there,” Brent said grimly.

  “Can’t we just, like, appear there?”

  Brent shook his head. “No, we aren’t genies.”

  “Walk there?”

  “No can do.”

  I let out a puff of frustrated air that lifted my bangs from my forehead. “Why not?”

  “Well, we can’t leave Pendrell.”

  “Why?” I questioned, feeling suddenly confined. I had never liked rules, and it irritated me that there were still rules even when I was dead.

  “I wish I had the answers for you, but all I know is we can’t leave.”