World of Darkness: Attrition - Help Wanted (Complete)

[Astra D.]

January 29, 2009.

HELP WANTED.

It was just a scrap of plain white copy-paper, lettered neatly in black permanent marker and affixed to the small bulletin board by a red plastic thumbtack.

“Short-term housekeeper and studio assistant needed for local artist. Experience with metalworking a plus, willingness to work a flexible schedule required. Salary commensurate with experience and performance. Room and board provided.

Interested parties may leave a message at (760) 337-4490. Serious inquiries only, please.”

Whether through the workings of Fate, or pure happenstance, this small handwritten note caught Morgan’s eye as she was leaving the Shadow Box. Sandwiched between brightly-colored flyers for amateur palmists and a notice about the Student Pagan Association’s monthly meeting, it was almost invisible, but perhaps it was the incongruity of the relatively mundane job offer with the esoteric miscellanea surrounding it that snagged at her attention.

Oh, what the hell, she thought as she removed the note and tucked it in her pocket. At this point, I’d scrub toilets with a toothbrush if it got me the hell out of this place.

Her psycho, shape-shifting, flesh-devouring, Hello Kitty-loving roommate was still MIA, she couldn't find a party that didn't have that creepy Crimson shit, people kept disappearing, and everyone was losing their minds. For all she knew, Swara-Ann could just decide to pop in some night to check Myspace or Facebook or something, and have her for a snack while she waited on the wifi.

As far as Morgan was concerned, that was not going to happen.

*************

“Put that down,” Morgan hissed, waving an exasperated hand at her friend. Reva just rolled her eyes and flopped bodily back down onto the bed as the other girl paced back and forth, cell phone pressed against her ear. The dark-skinned drummer set the poly-resin statuette back on the desk, kicking her feet in boredom.

“I still don’t get it,” she said. “Why do you keep a doll with neo-Nazi swastika pasties on its boobs? Seriously, Morgan. That’s kinda weird.”

“It’s not a doll,” her friend muttered. “It’s a bust, and it’s signed by-“

“Hello?” The masculine voice on the other end of the line caught her off-guard, and completely derailed her train of thought.

“Hello? Oh! Um, hi. I saw a job posting for a housekeeper and studio helper, and this was the number listed. I was wondering if the position was still available.”

“It is,” came the smooth reply. “I take it you’re a student at UCLA, then?”

“Yeah, I’m a sophomore. Art major.”

“Ah, good. Have you ever worked with metal before, Miss Westbrook?”

“I have, actually. Mostly jewelry, but some other conceptual pie…ces...” Morgan’s voice trailed off, and her blank stare earned her a raised eyebrow and an exaggerated shrug from the half-Korean. Had he just…?

“Hmm. That’s a bit small for my purposes, but we’ll see,” the man continued. “I’m a sculptor, you see. I work out of my home, and I’ve apparently acquired a bit of a back-log on commissions. I’d like to whittle that down over the winter holidays, and I need someone to help me in the studio, as well as keeping things tidy in the house while I work.” There was something like a muffled chuckle on his end as he added, “I have a tendency to neglect the mundane side of things when I’m busy.”

“Right,” she murmured distantly, still trying to work out whether or not she’d told him her name.

“You’ll be here for a couple of weeks, minimum. I don’t own a television, and I’m afraid cell phone service is… well, it’s nonexistent out here. You’ll be staying in the guest room, and of course the common rooms of the house will be at your disposal. I’ll give you a moment to find something to write with before I give you the address.”

Blinking, Morgan did just that. Snatching an inkpen from the clutter on her desk, she quickly scribbled the information down on the back of her chemistry folder.

“I’ll see you… Let’s say, the day after tomorrow, mm? I’m so looking forward to meeting you. …Ah. I’d almost forgotten.” Relieved, Morgan opened her mouth expectantly, ready to ask a few questions of her own. “Quite a bit of your work will keep you outside, so be sure to bring some sunscreen, and comfortable clothes, mm? It’s still quite warm out here during the day. Take care.”

Click.

The connection cut, all she could do was look blankly over at her friend and wonder what, precisely, she had just gotten into.

[Astra D.]

January 31, 2009.

"You're crazy," Reva hissed. "What if he's a psycho who preys on nubile young college students? What if you go out there and he's got, like, dead animals crucified and abandoned cars and a freaky old shed with underground tunnels, and, and..." The young woman flailed helplessly, the worry in her voice evident even over the raucous sounds of the music blaring out of the stereo.

Yankee dollar talk

To the dictators of the world

In fact it's giving orders

An they can't afford to miss a word

"Reva," Morgan stated flatly, pausing as she shoved another t-shirt haphazardly into the backpack. The young Acanthus gave her friend a level, if somewhat visibly annoyed, stare. "It'll be fine. It's only for a couple of weeks. I've written the address down, and the guy's name. I did some checking online last night, and it sounds legit. He's the one who got that commission for the monument outside the big Bank of the West building." She let that sink in for a moment before forcing a pair of battered sneakers in with her clothes and finally zipping the overstuffed bag closed.

Go ahead, I know you're thinking it. "Whoa. Morgan did something responsible?" Hell yes, when we're talking about going to stay with a complete stranger in the middle of nowhere. I want someone to know where I was, and who I was with if I happen to disappear. None of this, "Well, maybe she just took off!" crap. Man, this could end so badly. I've seen horror movies start out like this.

"Oh," was the other girl's response as she spun around in Swara-Ann's computer chair. "So... If he tries anything, you won't go all stupid horror movie bimbo, right?"

"No, I won't be a stupid horror movie bimbo," Morgan relented, grinning in spite of herself. "Now I gotta get going. Try to keep the guys in line while I'm gone, huh? You know they can't- Hrgh!" Anything else she might've said was cut off as her best friend pounced, seizing her in a death grip that could, theoretically, be considered a "hug."

"Hurry home," Reva whispered fiercely, squeezing with all her strength.

The gasping mage shoved weakly at her companion, laughing. "Okay, okay! I won't be gone long. Chill, it's not like you're never going to see me again, woman. Lemme go." Reva just shook her head and stepped back, her dark eyes brimming with concern.

"I don't know. I've got a weird feeling, Morgan, like you might be gone a really long time."

She sounded so serious, Morgan couldn't help but pause to consider her words. It was hard for the Enchantress to ignore such statements; sometimes Fate chose to broadcast its intentions in strange ways. Nervously, she laughed it off, waving her hand and smiling with a confidence she didn't quite feel anymore.

"I'll see you soon, okay? Love you. Gotta go."

After another round of hugs, kissed cheeks, and a few shed tears, Morgan darted out the door before she could change her mind.

[Astra D.]

January 31, 2009.

It was almost dark by the time the headlights of the rental car illuminated an ancient, weather-beaten mailbox leaning precariously away from yet another winding ribbon of dust and gravel. The radio flickered as she approached, alternating between static and snippets of the deejay's patter, and the headlights dimmed perceptibly, fading to a soft amber. Morgan barely noticed; she was tired, her butt was sore from several hours of driving on unpaved, half-eroded "roads," and her Big Gulp of iced tea had probably started boiling again around Barstow.

What did get her attention, and fast, was the sudden array of huge, geometric structures that appeared silhouetted against the deepening dusk. Her foot slowly slid off the gas as she stared, and the car complied by gradually rolling to a near-stop, barely inching forward as the gravel crunched beneath the tires.

Out in the middle of nowhere, on the vast, sandy flats of barren earth, a megalithic assortment of strange sculptures rose up to greet the open sky. There was a huge ring with a spherical pendant hanging from the apex, something that looked like an egg, a pyramid with a vague eye-shape perched upon the peak, and a multitude of others she could only narrowly identify as deliberate constructs instead of wayward boulders. Some, she was sure, would be more complex if she could only see them clearly, but the sun had already fled the horizon, and only amorphous black shapes greeted her.

"Well," she said finally, whistling a single soft note that dipped precipitously in pitch. "I guess I'm headed in the right direction, at least." At her urging, the car began to move again, following the luminous beacon of a porch light that flared to life in the distance. Behind her, the huge, shadowy forms receded into the night, and if she wondered that the moonlight that limned them seemed a little brighter than it should have, the thought was gone before it formed.

Her heart was racing as the shape of a smallish, weather-beaten house came into view, with only a single vehicle parked outside: an old, dusty pickup truck big enough to comfortably house at least two UCLA freshmen. No razorwire fence, no crucified animals, no rows of abandoned cars. Real life isn't a horror movie, Morgan. Real psychos don't want to warn off potential prey. She shivered in the cool desert air and killed the engine. Lights were on inside, but she didn't see any movement through the windows. Grumbling, she slid out of the car and winced as she stood up for the first time in hours.

"Ow, ow, ow," she muttered, gingerly pacing the length of the car. "This was so fucking stupid. Why the hell did I decide this was a good idea? Ow, damnit." Cursing, she twisted from side to side, listening to her spine crack, and reached into her pocket for her cigarette case; if some desert-dwelling mutant was going to kill her, she figured the French had it right.

"Because I promised to pay you," a velvety baritone voice responded casually, and Morgan nearly leapt out of her skin. She whirled around, only briefly forgetting her stiff neck as it suddenly spasmed in a sharp cramp. "Oh, shit," she gasped, grimacing in surprise and pain. The response was an easy, resonant chuckle as the large, dark figure on the porch strode forward, boots thudding heavily on the wooden steps. "You all right?" he asked, even white teeth bared in a bemused smile.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she replied, finally getting a good look at the man who'd posted the ad. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and well-built, with dark mocha skin, whiskey-amber eyes, and long, thick dreadlocks bound neatly together at the nape of his neck. "I'm, um, Morgan, Morgan Westbrook. I came about the- well, I guess you know why I'm here," she finished lamely. Okay, he is so not what I was expecting.

"Ka-Ren," the man replied, and before she could comment, he added with a rueful grin. "No, I wasn't supposed to be a girl. It's Egyptian, and, yes, that is my real name."

"Right," Morgan nodded. "So... Nice to meet you," she continued, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. She didn't get any scary vibes from him, and after hanging out with LA's denizens of the night, she was pretty confident in her ability to peg a predator. Mostly.

As if sensing her discomfort, Ka-Ren simply smiled and nodded, again showing off those perfect pearly whites. "Come on. I'll give you the grand tour. We'll come back for your things later. I've got a lot to show you, and then you can tell me all about your work. It's been ages since I've talked to an Acanthus," he added casually as he opened the door. Not for the first time in the weeks to come, Morgan had the sneaking suspicion she'd just gotten in way over her head.

[Astra D.]

February 08, 2009

Morgan squinted up at the blazing noonday sun, wondering how in the hell she was going to explain to her friends why she looked like a boiled lobster when she got home. Wasn't it supposed to be cooler in the winter? As she looked around the open expanse of sand and rock at the back of Ka-Ren's house, she cringed at the thought of being stuck here in the summer. Even in early February, ripples of heat curled lazily upward from the concrete slab of the patio, and beads of sweat dripped down her sunburned face.

"How's it going out there?" her host called amiably from the nearby kitchen window.

"Just peachy," she ground out, rubbing a dusty forearm across her brow, leaving a muddy smear just below her hairline. "Would be better if I had some help, but I'd hate to interrupt you."

The Moros (an interesting little tidbit he'd shared), just laughed pleasantly and lifted a glass of something that looked icy and refreshing in her direction, and took a long, deliberate sip. "That's so thoughtful of you, Morgan."

She shot him a look that could've peeled paint, if there was any in this sand-blasted place to speak of, and heaved another chunk of metal from the back of the "supply" truck onto the trailer he'd brought around. He hadn't told her much about the process he used to make his sculptures yet, but what had surprised her was that he wouldn't use metals someone else had worked; he'd melt them all down and start over. Surely it would've been easier to just fabricate the parts elsewhere and assemble them, but, no. Ka-Ren was an artist, and she knew all too well how that worked.

Her back ached, her muscles burned, her clothes were filthy, and her skin felt like she'd been slow-roasted for about two weeks, but she was too stubborn to go home. The threat of running into Swara-Ann, or flinging herself at Declan like a cheap whore still loomed large, and if volunteering for slave labor kept her out of that particular hell, well, she'd take this one instead.

She dusted off her gloved hands on her thighs, and exhaled sharply as she picked up another irregular piece of bronze. It was heavy, and she was tired, but it was better than being home.

[Astra D.]

February 14, 2009

"...could be worse, I guess. Feels a little like a labor camp or something, sometimes, but I've already learned a lot about his process, and as much as it's a pain in the ass, I can't deny that it works. He's not even accepting commissions until next spring, he's so booked up."

Naturally, Morgan neglected to tell her friend back at UCLA that she'd been learning a good deal more than just metalworking from her new tutor. She still wasn't sure Reva was ready for the whole, Hey, magic is real, I can twist Fate and Time, and a whole bunch of crazy shit like vampires and werewolves and fairies and spirits and all that has been existing right under your nose spiel, and she didn't like to think of the consequences if she spilled the beans to the wrong person.

"Anyway, I should get going. ...Yeah, I'll call you in a couple of days. Give everyone my love, 'kay? Bye."

She sighed, hanging up the receiver on the pay phone and trudging back to the battered old truck. No way am I putting any more miles on that damned rental than I have to, she'd told Ka-Ren bluntly, and to her surprise, he hadn't argued. As she climbed up into the cab, she glanced through the windshield at the man pumping gas into a dusty motorcycle. There was something about his posture, the way his hair was ruffled by the breeze, that caught her eye, and she found herself holding her breath as she waited for him to turn around.

A moment later, he did, hanging up the nozzle and smiling curiously at the pretty girl with the bright green eyes. The look was plainly inquisitive, and she exhaled, politely returning the smile and shutting the door of the truck with a loud, metallic thud before returning her attention to the road. It wasn't him. Of course it wasn't. What the hell would he be doing all the way out here in the desert? She wondered, briefly, if anyone had told him she was gone.

The engine roared to life, almost drowning out the sound of Willie Nelson singing about seven Spanish angels, and the winding ribbon of dust and rock unwound before her.

[Astra D.]

February 19, 2009

Morgan stood in front of the bathroom mirror, aggressively rubbing moisturizer into her fading sunburn. In a few more days, she'd have a proper California tan, and she hadn't even gotten close to a beach. It wasn't too bad, she decided, studying her reflection critically. Although she wouldn't admit it, the deeper skin tone only made her eyes look that much brighter, and nicely complemented the darkness of her hair. Being a long-time goth, even this tiniest of concessions was tantamount to heresy, but she rationalized the "sin of the sun" as a necessary evil. It got hot in the desert, and damned bright- even in February.

The knock at the door startled her, and she rolled her eyes as the little tube of lotion clattered to the floor.

"I'll be done in a minute! Good grief..."

"Sure. Sorry about that." The faint sound of a chuckle told her plainly that he wasn't, not in the least. "I just wanted to let you know a letter came for you. Here. I'll just slide it under the door for you."

Sure enough, a relatively pristine envelope appeared near her feet, and she muttered a terse, "Thanks" as the sound of Ka-Ren's footsteps receded down the hallway.

Wrapping the towel about herself and tucking the end in to keep the makeshift garment in place, Morgan pushed her damp hair back out of her eyes and frowned. She couldn't remember giving anyone this address, but there it was, neatly typed out under her name. She didn't recognize the sender's name, but the address pegged him as being part of the faculty at school. Suddenly worried, she worked the end of her comb under the flap and neatly ripped it open.

It only took a few minutes to skim the rows of perfect monospaced text. She was being re-enrolled for the spring semester on a limited curriculum, and assigned to a short-term work-study program under Ka-Ren's tutelage. It was an excellent opportunity, etc. His reports would determine her grades for the duration of her stay. After Spring Break, she would be integrated into her other classes, and it was fully expected that she would be able to keep up with the other students. Her scholarship, it stated, was a tenuous thing, with funding being cut in so many departments, and more rigorous standards were being applied. It was unfortunate, but they had no doubt she was more than capable of maintaining at least the minimum requirements, blah, blah, blah.

Without bothering to get dressed, she stormed out of the bathroom, the letter crumpling in her fist.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded. "Since when do you get to dictate anything about my education?"

The tall, dark-skinned Moros turned, leaning back against the kitchen counter and sipping from an earthenware mug in what could only be considered leisurely fashion. His broad shoulders twitched in a shrug, and he smiled.

"Since I asked nicely, and the head of the Arts department happened to owe me a favor. Even in college, Miss Westbrook, it's not what you know. It's who."

He pushed off the counter and strolled past her, the smile never wavering on his lips as he left her standing there in the entrance of the kitchen, mouth agape and staring at the empty air.

[Astra D.]

February 21, 2009

Clouds of dust billowed behind the faded blue Chevy as Morgan traced the "road" across the sun-baked expanse of sand and stone. The sound of rocks plinking against the frame provided an interesting counterpoint to the rumble of the engine, and she caught herself grinning as she imagined Reva trying to copy it. Out of habit, more than anything, she glanced into the rear-view mirror as she drove. There was never anyone out here, but it never hurt to check.

She was just about to turn the radio back on when movement caught her eye. Glancing in the mirror again, she chuckled to herself.

"I'll be damned. There really is someone else dumb enough to drive all the way out here."

Between the roiling clouds of dust, she could just make out the shape of a small black compact car behind her. The glint of sunlight on the windshield prevented her from seeing the driver, but she couldn't shake the creeping feeling that she'd seen it somewhere before. With a shake of her head, she dismissed the thought, and focused on the road in front of her.

A shadow crossed the mirror, and she glanced up again. The car was closer now, enough to see the Honda emblem on the grille. It was weaving slowly back and forth across the road, in and out of the dust-clouds. She frowned. The gravel out here was pretty loose, and screwing around like that could cause a major problem. She sighed, trying to ignore the rhythmic crunch and rattle of rocks being scattered as the driver swerved again in some idiotic imitation of a slalom, or maybe a driver's ed course. She couldn't decide which.

Unfortunately, she didn't have much time to think about it. Before she'd gone more than another hundred yards, something tapped her rear bumper.

"God damn it," she swore under her breath as an icy frisson rippled down her spine. She knew she'd seen that damned car somewhere, and now it was about to get her killed. She laid on the horn, glaring at the unseen driver through the side mirror. Instinctively, she sped up slightly, her panic rising as the driver moved to keep pace with her. Logically, she knew he could plaster the little rice-burner completely against the truck and she probably wouldn't end up with much more than a dent and some scraped paint, but the situation was rapidly deviating from logical paths.

Fretfully, she kept glancing from the road to the mirror, staring at the reflection as the car vanished amid a thick swirl of sand. She looked back at the road just in time to see it appear, impossibly, in front of her. There was no time to stop. Her foot pounded ineffectually on the brake pedal, but the loose gravel just sent her skidding forward. She gripped the steering wheel, squeezing her eyes shut and strangling back a scream as she plowed into the car, sending it careening down the embankment.

The sound of screeching tires, shattering glass, and twisting metal echoed in her ears, drowning out the mad drumming of her heart, and then all was silent. Dimly, she registered that she'd stopped, and, after fumbling dazedly for the door latch, she managed to stumble out of the truck.

Smoke rose up from the crumpled wreck below, though there were no flames. It probably wasn't a gas leak, she reasoned, sliding awkwardly down the side of the ditch toward the car. Maybe the driver was still alive in there.

"Fuck," she swore aloud, cursing her luck. She didn't have a cell phone. She'd just have to try to flag someone down, or make it to the pay phone in Kelso.

"Hello?! Hey, is anyone there?" she called out as she made her way over to the upended vehicle. Two of its tires were still lazily spinning, and broken glass littered the ground. What still remained in the frame was laced with spiderweb cracks and smeared with blood; Morgan's heart sank. Unbelievably, she saw movement inside.

"Hey! Hey, are you okay? If you can hear me, say something!"

She scrambled over to the driver's side, struggling to see through the dust and debris.

"Hello? Listen, my name's Morgan, and-"

An unearthly, awful scream filled her ears as the form in the front seat shifted, and a shattered, too-pale face came into view. Mangled as it was, there was no mistaking the familiarity of the features, or the light of recognition in its bloodied eyes as it reached for her. Sobbing, she fell backwards, kicking uselessly at the thing as she tried to shuffle away. Her fingers found no purchase on the sandy ground, and as she watched, pallid hands began to pound against the rear window. She knew, too, who those belonged to, and her heart beat madly in her chest.

"No!" she screamed, tears streaming freely down her face as her voice cracked with terror. "It's not my fault! I'm sorry, please! It's not my fault!" The young mage shrieked hysterically as something grabbed her shoulder, hissing her name, and the world was swallowed in black.

"Damn it, Morgan, wake up!"

She wasn't dead. Someone was shaking her, her whole body hurt, and she could taste bile in the back of her throat. Blearily, she opened her eyes to find Ka-Ren leaning over her bed, concern writ plain across his face.

"Jesus, girl," he breathed, releasing her. "You all right?"

No. No, I don't think I've ever been "all right."

"Yeah," she croaked, letting her head fall back on the pillow. "Yeah, I'm all right. Thanks."

"Just relax. We'll talk about it in the morning. Try to get some rest, okay?"

He left her then, to the small guest bedroom filled with silvery-blue light as the moon shone down from high above. She knew people who venerated the moon, worshipped it like a goddess, but Morgan knew they were wrong. There were no gods, no goddesses watching over them, she thought bitterly as a fresh wave of hot tears spilled down her cheeks. If there were, they were hateful motherfuckers not worth worshipping.

[Astra D.]

March 01, 2009

They hadn't talked about the dream the next morning, or, in fact, on any of the subsequent mornings. It simply hung in the air, awkward and ugly, and neither mage was quite certain how to acknowledge or banish it. It plagued their every interaction, injected the very atmosphere with poisonous tension, and wedged itself firmly between each individual thought until it couldn't be ignored. Instead, they simply avoided it, delaying the inevitable by burying themselves in physical labor and theoretical discussions about the permeability of the various layers of existence.

In the middle of one such conversation, while Ka-Ren was musing objectively on the nature of the Twilight, Morgan suddenly leaned forward in her chair. Her clear green eyes held a kaleidoscopic reflection of the sunset all around them, illuminated by the soft glow of the outdoor lanterns hanging from the edge of the porch. "Teach me," she said simply.

The wooden slats of her tutor's chair creaked in protest as he shifted, exhaling through his teeth.

"Morgan, I am teaching you. I think you've made a lot of progress so far. You've got a good grasp of-"

"No," she replied flatly, shaking her head. He knew what she meant, and she wasn't going to let him pretend otherwise. "Teach me how to talk to them. How to see the..." She swallowed, her voice wavering. "The dead." Even that much was hard to say, as if in admitting it, she somehow made it true.

But it is true. It is true, Morgan. They're dead. They're all dead, and you're not.

She squeezed her eyelids shut, forbidding tears from escaping as she raked a hand back through her hair.

"You're a Moros, right? You can do that, can't you?"

She could hear the tension in Ka-Ren's voice when he finally answered. "Yes, Morgan, I can, but I don't think-"

"What? You don't think I'm ready?" she asked incredulously, her head jerking up. "Look if you want to test me, feel free. I will learn, one way or the other, and if you won't teach me, someone else will."

For a moment, the young enchantress thought he might actually take her up on her challenge. The Moros's knuckles went pale as he gripped the arms of the chair, and his jaw went rigid with anger.

"Fine," he ground out tersely. "But I was going to say I don't think it will help." He rose stiffly to his feet, walking swiftly toward the house.

"It won't help? Why?" Morgan stared after him, suddenly bewildered. "If I can talk to them, even for a minute, maybe they'll understand." Maybe they'll forgive me.

The big man paused in front of the open door, and looked back at the girl sitting on his porch. She shivered as his gaze passed over her, shadow momentarily swallowing up the rich amber of his eyes.

"I don't think it'll help, Morgan, because you're not being haunted. The only ghosts around you are your own." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, heavy as lead around her spirit, and continued inside.

"We'll start tomorrow. You'll leave when we're done."

[Astra D.]

March 19, 2009

Morgan knew the name for her problem. They called it "survivor's guilt," as if that was an adequate means of encompassing the intricate and nuanced hell experienced by someone who was living it. A normal person, one not assailed daily by perceptions and insights about time, fate, and the nature of the world beyond the safe illusion of mundane reality, would simply get some counseling, perhaps join a support group. Mages didn't have that luxury, and Morgan couldn't exactly console herself with the idea that some higher power was ordaining the events of their lives, and it was all for the best. As an Acanthus, she knew better.

She just hadn't figured out how to change it yet.

As she watched Ka-Ren's house shrinking in the rearview mirror, surrounded by a silent army of stone and metal sentinels, she pulled a cigarette from her case with trembling fingers. He'd been true to his word, lifting yet another veil from her eyes, and then it was over. She had a pretty good idea why he'd made her leave, even if he never actually came right out and said it.

He was worried, that much was plain. None of the ghosts she saw were those of her friends, no matter how she called out to them, and he couldn't tell her why. Oh, sure, he'd tried to explain it away as "just a nightmare," but he'd never looked directly at her when he said it. He couldn't tell her, either, why it had gotten so cold the water in the basin was laced with ice crystals, or why he couldn't hear the woman laughing.

It didn't matter, though. He'd given her something to work with, and that was a start. A new purpose, a new energy sang through her veins, and as the dust billowed out behind her, Morgan knew, with complete certainty, that this was only the beginning.