A Quarrel Called: Stewards Of The Plane Book 1 (6 page)

14. TARA

“Geeze,” I said, trying to absorb the whole story, “that’s
crazy-scary.” I skipped a step to catch up with Melody’s stride. “Hey, slow
down a little. Be kind to the vertically challenged.”

“Sorry,” she said, absentmindedly, slowing down. “I’m just
all worked up. I’m half afraid to go to bed in my own room tonight.”

“But you said Gram
saged
the
house, right?”

“Yeah, she did. But I don’t really believe in that stuff.”

“Well, you should,” I said, suddenly irritated. “The ghost
of your brother knocks a photo off of your wall and some sort of
old-hag-succubus thing tries to suck your soul out at the same time that Sam is
dreaming about the exact same thing happening to you… Good Lord, Melody, what’s
it going to take to convince you that there are things in this world that can’t
be explained?”

She didn’t say anything, and that worried me a little. “I’m
sorry,
I’m not trying to be
pissy
.
I’m just… I don’t have any answers for you. I don’t know what to say either.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted you to go see Esme with me.
Because she said that thing about the journey of my soul or whatever, and now
look at all the crap that has happened in the last couple of weeks. It’s
freaky. And she’s the only person I can think of to ask.”

“Besides your Gram, you mean.”

Mel shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m ready to tell her everything
that’s going on. I don’t want a lecture about messing with things I don’t
understand, and I really, really don’t want her to worry about me. She’s got
enough going on with Gramps being so sick.”

“I feel
ya
, Ophelia.” We stopped on
the sidewalk to the shop and stood idly outside the door. We were a few minutes
early; Esme didn’t open until 11:00.

Despite the fact that it was early July, the morning was
unseasonably cool. Texas summers came in two flavors, hot and hotter. Luckily
for us, it was raining more than usual, so the summer so far was only hot, and
this morning was downright lovely. I studied the blue sky above and was
irritated by the white stripes marring the perfect azure expanse. “Why do they
have to do that?” I said. “Can’t they fly higher or something? Those stupid
stripes are wrecking my sky.”

Melody shrugged.
“Modern technology; where
would we be without airplanes?
That trip to London we’re planning for
after we graduate? Pretty much
gotta
fly if we’re
going to go.”

“I know. But still.” The lock turned on the door behind us
and I saw over my shoulder Esme through the glass pane, smiling and waving for
us to come in. “Sure you’re ready for this?”

“Ready for what?”

“Just do me a favor. Esme is a really nice lady. Try to leave
your skepticism at the door. You can be as doubtful as you like later when
we’re walking home, but for now, just be polite, okay?”

Mel nodded. “I’m not new, Tara. Besides, it was me that
asked to come here today.”

I smiled. “Yes, it was.
Finally.”
We went inside.

While Esme and Mel sat at the little reading table in the
back, I kept an eye out for customers. Esme trusted me enough to put me behind
the counter, and I was really honored. Besides, I could hear the whole
conversation from there; it was going to take an act of will not to interject
every other sentence. This was Mel’s tale to tell. I was just a supporting
character at this point. But still, the whole experience was crazy-scary. But
also
cool
. I didn’t want to miss a
single word.

“So your friend Sam had the dream, and he called you on the
phone and you think that is what woke you?”

“Yes. Because at that moment I remember hearing the chime
for voicemail just as I realized that there was this thing sitting on my
chest.”

Esme nodded and took a sip of her tea, silver bangles
chiming against the saucer as she set her cup down. “It was indeed a thing.
An etheric parasite.
They do not have physical bodies like
you, but they can feed on your energy. The human soul is a powerful source of
energy and yours is very bright.”

“But why mine?” asked Mel, clearly dubious. “What’s so
special about mine?”

“Nothing really.
Etheric parasites
feed on anyone, anytime. Whenever there are strong emotions, the parasites will
show up to gorge. Your thoughts are things, so are your emotions. In the ether,
they are”—she pursed her lips—“they are like the wind and the sun. You can feel
the wind or the heat from the sun, right?
Even though you
cannot see them?”

I nodded as if I had been asked the question, entranced. I
had forgotten to watch for customers as the front door chimed.

“So even though you cannot see your thoughts or your
emotions, these etheric parasites, they can. And for them it is fuel, just like
sunlight is fuel for a solar cell or wind is fuel for a windmill. Do you see?”
She took another sip of tea. “When you are dreaming, you are broadcasting –
your wind is blowing – and these entities feel the breeze, so to speak, and
find the source. That you finally awoke and saw this one, don’t be alarmed, but
this was only one of dozens that have fed off of you in the past. Especially
since your brother died.”

“What do you mean, since my brother died?” Melody demanded.

Esme paused as if considering her words. “Of course, one of
the reasons is because of the anguish and pain that his disappearance has
caused you. You can hide it all you like, but the emotions are still there
under the surface, and they are gourmet fare to a parasite. But it’s not just
anguish and pain – any intense emotion will do. Except for joy; they cannot
tolerate joy. But so few people know what true joy feels like anymore, that
they are susceptible all the time.
Everywhere.”
She
paused and then leaned in close, looking first at Melody and then at me.
“Everywhere,” she said again, her tone deadly serious.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I had too many questions. “Even
me?”

“Especially people like you, Tara,” she said. “People who
are energy sensitive are like a banquet – if you do not realize you are feeling
other people’s emotions in an empathic way, if you do not realize you are
broadcasting your emotions like a loudspeaker, you are also a victim of these
creatures. This is universal – it does not matter who you are or where you come
from.”

“How can I stop it?”
Melody asked, her
voice strained.
“I don’t ever want to go through that again.”

“Where is the ring I gave you?”

Melody dug the ring out of her pocket and presented it to
Esme.

“Tsk, Tsk. You should wear it on your finger. Or if you do
not want to wear it on your finger, at least wear it on a string around your
neck, positioned over your heart chakra, like so,” she pointed to her breast
bone, between her breasts. “Where was the ring last night? Was it in the room
with you?”

Melody blushed, “No. It was in the dirty laundry. I forgot
to take it out of my pocket the other day.”

“You must keep it with you from now on. The crystal inside
of it puts out a positive energy called orgone
energy,
it will create an area around you that is intolerable to parasites. They may
try to feed on you again, but they will not stay, because the positive orgone
energy is like acid to them. They cannot tolerate it.” She got up from the
table and walked toward the counter.

I moved out of the way so that she would have room to search
for what she was looking for, and while she did that, I turned to help the
customers who had walked up to the register. I rang up their purchase and gave
them their change.

“Here it is,” Esme said, handing a little malachite pyramid
to Melody. “Keep this also on your bedside table. Malachite protects against
negative entities.”

“A pyramid?”
Melody took the small
green and black pyramid and squinted at it.

“Hmm, perhaps you are right. You do not seem like a pyramid.
I think you are a sphere.” Esme turned to dig in the cabinet again. Before
long, she stood up, holding a small malachite sphere and handed it to Melody in
exchange for the pyramid.
“Same thing.
Keep this next
to your bed. It will help.”

Melody took the sphere, smaller than a golf ball, and hefted
it. “I can’t just keep taking things from you for free. How much is this? I’ll
pay for it.”

Esme smiled approvingly. “It is good to receive gifts, but
it is better to also give back. The sphere is twenty dollars. But for you, I
will take twelve, which is what I paid when I purchased it from my supplier.”

Melody smiled and dug some money out of her pocket.
“Thanks,” she said, her hand curled protectively around the sphere.

I grinned. “Hey Esme, I don’t suppose you’re hiring someone
to work the counter, are you? Because I could really use a job...”

Her laughter rang out and I could almost feel it like the
wind she was talking about. It was infectious and made me laugh, too.

“Tara, how did you know?” She gestured at the help-wanted
sign she had filled out earlier that sat idly on the counter. “Come see me
tomorrow. We can work something out.”

15. SAM

The walk with Melody that morning had felt strained. There
was not a lot to talk about without rehashing the night’s events, and neither
of us wanted to do that. And if I didn’t talk about that, I would end up
admitting that I had an EVP recording sitting at home on my DJ rig, waiting for
me to scrub it. So I didn’t want to talk about that, either. Not until I had
listened to it myself and knew for sure what was or wasn’t there.
Melody’d
had enough shocks for now.

I lugged another crate of fruit over to the dolly and
stacked it. Four crates and I could take it into the produce section and get
out of the cooler. I liked being inside during the summer, don’t get me wrong,
but after a while, being stuck in the back where it’s fifty degrees or colder
all the time was enough for me to crave the chance to bring in some carts from
the steaming hot parking lot once in a while. But those guys sweated like pigs
and probably wished they were me.

“Hey, Sam,” said Tyler through the door. “
Me
and Colton are heading to Main Street after work. Want to come?”

“Sure, as long as we hit Trader’s Village while we’re over
there. I need some old tracks for samples.”

Tyler shrugged. “It’s cool with me. Catch you after.”

I gave him a nod and went back to trucking fruit. I had just
managed to hold off listening to the recording for at least a few extra hours.
Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. By the time we got back from Main Street,
it would be dark out, and somehow, listening to evil ghost crap after last
night was not turning me on.

#

Trader’s Village was the mecca of music for someone like me.
They had everything, and I mean everything, from old forty-fives and
eight-track tapes, to recent vinyl pressings, CDs and an MP3 vending machine.
The store was arranged just the way I liked it – edgy-and-hip meets
old-and-industrial. I’m not sure how they managed to take old mangled furniture
and recycled gymnasium flooring and turn it into such a cool look, but the
place didn’t scream lounge—it
oozed
it.

I hovered in the oldies section, and by oldies, I mean
eighties. I wanted something cool yet simple with a hard downbeat that I could
layer with some of the newer tracks that had been coming out lately.
Something that most kids hadn’t heard before.
Like maybe the
Motels
? Or … I reached for a battered
disc by
Dexy’s
Midnight Runners
just as another,
definitely more feminine, manicured hand, beat me to it.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you reaching for this?” She smiled and
held the disc out to me. She had dark brown—almost black—hair with a pixy cut,
and the deepest green eyes I had ever seen. Lots of eye makeup and a tiny gold
nose ring.
Holy shit,
hot
.

Suddenly self-conscious in my grocery store uniform shirt
and my sadly preppy khaki pants, I managed to smile and say something not
completely asinine. “Nah, you take it. I have a copy at home.”

“Really,” she said, slumping to her left, and throwing her
hip out. “You have this album at home? Name one song, just one, off of the
back, and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“Released in 1982, Too-Rye-Ay is the second album by
Dexy’s
Midnight Runners
. The most popular song
was ‘Come on Eileen,’ but that would be too easy, so let me name them for you
in reverse order: 'Come
On
Eileen,’ 'Until I Believe
in My Soul,’ 'Liars A to E,’” I said, warming to my subject, “let's see then.
there's
'Plan B,' 'I'll Show You'—”

“Okay, okay, I give. You obviously know your stuff.
Though if I may say so, you certainly don’t dress the part.”
She arched an eyebrow as her glance skimmed me from head to toe. She handed the
album to me. “What’s with the outfit? And if you don’t mind me asking, since
you have a copy of this album at home, what do you need this one for?”

My pulse picked up. This chick was really cute, and she
didn’t hate me. Maybe I should– “I have a job to help pay for my rig, and I
wanted this album because I’ve got a gig coming up and I can’t find my copy
anywhere,” –talk myself up a little. That was only a
partial
lie.

“Really?
You spin?” Her mouth
quirked and then bloomed into a smile.

“Yeah.
I said I have a gig, didn’t
I?”

“Let me know where, and I’ll come by for a listen. If I like
what I hear, I can hook you up with a major event.
Pays a
thousand bucks.
And it sure beats working at the deli.”

Shit. Now I would have to come up with something or risk
losing my chance with this girl. “Give me your number. I’ll text you as soon as
the date is set. My manager’s working out the details for me.”

“Right,
cuz
I want you stalking me
with your
Dexy’s
Midnight Runners
? No way. You give me
your digits, and I’ll text you this weekend. If you don’t have details by then,
well…” her green eyes twinkled, “then I’ll have to find somebody else.”

She gave me her phone, and I put my name and number in. What
the hell else was I supposed to do?
Find
a gig, that’s what.

So it turned out that Colton’s brother’s friend was having a
party on the other end of town and he would let me spin for a few hours as long
as I did it for free plus drinks. Sadly, I don’t drink when I spin, so it
seemed like I was doing the gig for the price of a couple of cokes. Oh yeah,
and hauling all my gear out there, too. Setup takes an hour, take-down takes
another hour, spin for at least two hours and all I get are a couple of cokes?
And the chick’s phone number when
she
texts me to get the details on my gig…
Oh yeah.
There was that. I grinned. Wish I had gotten her name. I blamed it on her
little gold nose ring. It was distracting.

#

It was nighttime and the cat (I had decided to call him Mr.
Smith, after
The Smiths
, one of my
favorite bands), was out prowling the neighborhood again. I was watching Mr.
Smith out the window, yet another ploy to keep myself from doing what had to be
done.

I had the software fired up, my headphones around my neck,
and the file copied from my phone and onto my hard drive. All I had to do now
was click the damned button. My finger hesitated. What was wrong with me?

From the street, I could hear the yowl of a very angry cat,
and I jumped a little and looked to see Mr. Smith, back arched, facing some
threat from the direction of Mr. Thompson’s house. He was making a heck of a
racket, his hackles starting to rise and his tail puffed up. I started to get
worried for him, the scrappy bugger, until I saw a winged shadow swoop into the
dim light from the top of Thompson’s garage, claws extended. It was the owl
from the other night. And before I could even get out of my chair, it snatched
Mr. Smith with its claws and flapped its wings in mighty strokes, trying to
carry the cat away for, what I could only assume, would be its dinner.

But Mr. Smith put up a fight, and before long, the owl was
forced to let the cat drop at least twelve feet to the ground below, where it
twisted in midair to land squarely on its paws. Then it dove into the nearby
sewer opening.

The owl hooted and continued on its flight, coming in my
direction, barely skimming past my window to land on the edge of the roof over
my room. I could hear its claws scraping on the shingles; I noticed that I was
gripping the edge of my desk with white knuckles and my heart was pounding in
my ears.
Screw
this
,
there was no way I was going to
listen to this EVP crap in the dark. I shut down the computer and turned on my
TV. Best thing for a case of the heebie-jeebies: a couple hours of mindless
cartoons.