hush.”
He lights the remaining candles, speaking quiet Spanish to someone no one can see. Wes tenses at August’s side as the last flame goes up.
“August?” Niko says. He’s looking at her expectantly, and she realizes: the scarf. She unwinds it from her neck and lays it on the table, the image of her uncle’s pocketknife laid across a gauzy cloth flashing through her brain.
“Okay,” he says. “Take one anothers’ hands.”
Myla’s callused palm slots neatly into August’s. Wes hesitates, looking unwilling to release his iron grip on his sweatshirt sleeves, but he finally gives in and laces his fingers through August’s. They’re clammy and as bony as they look, but comforting. He tentatively picks up Isaiah’s on his other side.
Across the table, Niko closes his eyes and releases a long, steady breath before speaking.
“This works better if everyone is open to what’s happening,” he says. “Even if you don’t know that you believe, or you’re afraid, try to open your mind and focus on radiating a sense of welcoming and warmth. We’re asking for a favor. Be kind about it.”
August bites her lip. Isaiah’s usual bright glow has dimmed to a reverent smolder as he brushes his thumb across Wes’s hand. It’s pretty late on a weeknight for a post-drag séance, especially considering he works a desk job, but he looks unbothered by the time.
“August,” Niko says, and she snaps her eyes to him. “Are you ready?”
Focus. Welcoming and warmth. Open mind. She releases a breath and nods.
“Spirit guides,” Niko says, “we come to you tonight in search of understanding, in the hopes we’ll receive a sign of your presence. Please feel welcome in our circle and join us when you’re ready.”
Should August close her eyes? Leave them open? Myla slides her eyes shut, totally at peace; August guesses she’s had a lot of time to get used to this kind of thing. Niko’s signature look of mild constipation is taking over his face, and August chews on the inside of her cheek, fighting a wave of nervous laughter.
“Jane,” Niko says. “Jane, if you’re there. August is here. I’d love for you to come forward. She’d love to talk to you.”
And suddenly, August couldn’t laugh if she tried.
It was one thing to talk in hypotheticals—if Jane isn’t what she seems, if they can reach her, if she’s dead. It’s something else to be here, breathing in smoke, face-to-face with whatever the answer might be. This girl August has spent almost every morning and afternoon with since she moved to the city, who’s made her feel things she hasn’t felt since she was a kid, like reckless hope—
Niko’s eyelids flicker open.
“It’s gonna be okay, August.”
August gulps down a breath.
“Jane,” he says, louder and clearer this time. “Maybe you’re lost, or you’re not sure where you are, or who you can trust. But you can trust me.”
They wait. The second hand on Myla’s watch ticks on. Isaiah’s fingers twitch. Wes exhales a shaky breath. August can’t look away from Niko’s face, from the set of his mouth, from his lashes twitching and fanning out on his cheeks. Minutes go by in silence.
Maybe she’s imagining it—maybe it’s the fear, the uncertainty, the atmosphere creeping under her skin—but she swears she feels it. Something cold brushing against the back of her neck. A hoarse whisper into the creak of the old building. A charge in the air, like someone’s dropped a toaster in a bathtub down the block, a surge of power just before the lights go out. The flames on the candles list to one side, but August can’t tell if it’s from her sharp inhale or something she can’t see.
“Hm,” Niko grunts suddenly, his lips pulling into a frown. Myla’s knuckles go white, gripping Niko’s hand tighter, and August wonders fleetingly how many times she must have done this—grounding Niko to this side while he drags his fingers through the other.
Niko mumbles under his breath, his brow furrowed, and somehow, the air settles. Something that’s been unfolded tucks itself back in and ties itself off. August’s ears start ringing.
Niko opens his eyes.
“Yeah, fuck, she’s not there,” he says, shattering the mood, and Wes deflates with relief. Niko looks at August almost apologetically. “She’s not a ghost, August. She’s not dead.”
“You’re sure?” August asks. “Like, totally sure?”
“The spirit guides are telling me wrong number, so,” he says with a small shrug.
He leads them through a closing prayer and thanks the spirits politely and promises to talk again soon like they’re a grandparent he calls