67AN: Sequel to "With This Ring", set about two months after the first story ends.I just thought you all should know that when i began this, i clicked over to my stats page, trying to decide which story i wanted this to be a sequel of, and the hit count on 'Ring' was at 666. Not kidding. This is partially developed off a plea by Wanda for me to write a continuation rather than a new story, and partially from the great fun of researching documented ghost stories. So here is the start of it- i hope you enjoy!
Chapter One: Murder by Spoon
"I quit." Lydia scowled at herself in the mirror. "No, really. I quit." She tried again. "You can't fire me. I quit."
"I like it when you said, 'Kiss my ass' first. Gets me all hot an' bothered. "
"Beej! Dammit!" Lydia threw down the lipstick she was brandishing and stood up, furiously turning her back on the grinning poltergeist that had taken up an annoyingly persistent residence in her mirror. She put her hands on her hips and smoothed over the slightly wrinkled rayon fabric of the jacket she was wearing, trying to hide her embarrassment. "I can't even use my own mirrors. I hate it when you spy on me."
Choosing to ignore her poor attempt at distraction, Beetlejuice slipped out of her mirror and floated up to the ceiling, never completely solidifying just in case she was in a mood for physical violence. "So why don't you just quit, already, Lyds? I don't get it. You hate your job; life's too short! I mean, not that watchin' you have these repetitive monologs with the mirror ain't interestin', but—"
"But nothing, Beetlejuice. Beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeetlejuicebeetlejuice! Dammit!" She threw down her hands in total exasperation at the smug poltergeist as he drifted lazily down to her bed and settled comfortably against the wrinkled sheets.
"Ah, Lydia. I love it when you say my name. Your dulcet tones give it such a delightful—"
"Maybe if I soaked everything with holy water… hung crosses, hired a priest…"
Beetlejuice sat up with a frown. "Hey, don't even joke about that, girlchild. I mean, not like it would work, but still. It's like me talkin' about how I'm gonna murder you with a spoon. Too creepy." He fixed her with a serious look until she rolled her eyes and relented, collapsing on the bed beside him. Her hand fell through his chest with an icy splash, and they both twitched.
"You're going to murder me with a spoon?" She turned to eye him curiously. "Is that the best you can do, Beej?"
He shrugged carelessly. "Short notice. I don't spend all my time devisin' ways to get rid of you." The last word was a carefully aimed accusation, and it hit home. She sighed.
"I don't spend all my time like that, Beej."
"What, ninety percent?"
"Eighty-five." But she was smiling now, and he could hear the mischief in her voice.
"We quarrelin' over five percent? Maybe you should be a bean counter." He raised an eyebrow with a grin. "Or a lawyer…"
"I don't know what I should be, tell you the truth." She rolled over and curled up, her back icy where she crossed into his space. He carefully solidified, making certain she was clear of him, and reached out to stroke her hair. She jumped at his cool touch, and then relaxed back into him. "I only know what I don't want to be."
"What's that?" His voice was gruff, and close. Their casual intimacy had remained just that—casual. He had never attempted to kiss her after that first terrible encounter, although he did stare at her quite a bit. And since she couldn't keep him out, she was glad at least that he had respected her choices. So far.
"Besides Rememberer of your true name? Possessor of your soul residue?"
"Geez, you make it sound like somethin' you'd scrape out of a bathtub! This is a very beautiful connection we have, Lyds." He sounded a little hurt, but she could never tell for certain if he was playing her. Nearly two months had passed since Clara had wrecked her apartment, and he had been able to come and go as he pleased. Come more than go. Way more. And though she had spent a great deal of time, willingly and unwillingly, in his presence, she had to admit that she still couldn't read him very well.
And now, in a job where she had to go to an office every day dressed in plain suit clothes and answer phones and file papers and make the damn coffee, she wasn't certain if she had read herself right, either. But money was harder to come by, and she refused to ask her parents for help. They thought she was old enough to be on her own. And they were right. But it had taken a long time to refurnish her apartment, especially since the landlady had blamed her for starting the fire on her bed and wouldn't pay for a cent of the damage herself.
That would have been because Beetlejuice had left a cigarette butt behind in his first hasty escape from her ire.
Not that he hadn't helped. She had no idea where her things had gone, but he had just gathered up every broken shard and fleck of dust in one massive magnetically charged sweep and shoved it through her mirror. How he had fit the bed she had absolutely no idea. The computer she had managed to save by letting it dry for a week, but the monitor had to be replaced. Her cameras… she almost wept at the thought. The lenses and mirrors in her SLR's had all been shattered to dust. The Nikon F2 was fairly easy to find in a secondhand camera store, if pricey, but her Hasselblad 1000 was nigh irreplaceable, especially the Zeiss lens. And the Leica R4… she supposed she could replace the camera, except that it had belonged to her mother. She closed her eyes. "I need options."
"You need a vacation."
She shifted on the bed so that she was facing him. This close, she could see the laugh lines at the corners of his deep-set jade eyes and the milky sheen of his skin. Not that he actually had skin, though he certainly had a body, and that body had a surface. A smooth, cool, silky surface, her fingers remembered. And he had become a much better dresser in the time that she had spent with him, as she protested the dust and tatters with sneezes and watery eyes. She remembered when she had accidentally discovered that during a haunting he customarily stuffed a ratty pillow down his pants and buttoned his shirt over it, because he thought it made him look 'more threatening." She had laughed herself to tears that night. The pillow had not made a return appearance.
Now he was dressed in a simple black linen buttondown, mandarin collar and rolled cuffs, and faded jeans, and his much beloved boots. He rested his head on his arm, and his other hand was a soft weight on her waist. Her mind cast back to that horrible wedding tux and she smiled in spite of herself. He just cocked an eyebrow at her in question.
"I like that shirt, Beej."
"You were laughin' because you like it?" His voice was uncertain, but his eyes were amused, crinkled at the corner.
She shook her head, still grinning. "I just remember how you used to dress…" Giggles threatened to overtake her then. He gave her half of a grin and deliberately eyed her cheap rayon suit.
"Glass houses, Lyds." She looked mildly outraged at his insinuation, and frowned down at her clothes. And then the giggles took over.
"Gods, Beej, I don't care if I never work another day—I am getting out of this job! And these clothes…"
"I can help with that!" He looked a little too enthusiastic.
"I can manage," she said dryly. He didn't even attempt to hide his disappointment. She pulled away from him, and he let her go, reluctantly. "I'm gonna change first, so I can't chicken out when I get there."
"Do you even need to go? Just get on the horn, girl."
"Beej, my stuff is there."
"Hello?" He waved his pale hand. "Poltergeist? I'll take care of all that, Lyds." He attempted a sincere look. She wavered.
"I dunno, Beej. I feel like this is something I should do in person. Kind of an honor thing."
"Honer schmonner. I'm just pickin' up your stuff. Hell, I could take you there after hours, if you really want." She narrowed her eyes at him, and sat back down on the bed.
"What do you mean?" He grinned toothily at her and casually brushed some lint from his shirt.
"I mean, I could take you there."
"How?" She felt herself taking the bait, but she couldn't keep down her curiosity.
"Ghost roads. Remember me tellin' you about ley lines a few weeks back?" She nodded.
"But I thought you actually had to be a ghost to use a ley line?"
He cocked his head at her, as if he were quizzing a particularly dense child. And enjoying it. "Sure. Or you have to travel with one."
Interested despite herself, she settled back down on the bed. "Where, exactly, could we go, theoretically?"
He glanced at her lips before he looked at her eyes. "Theoretically, anywhere you wanted."
She gave him a knowing smile, now. "What's the catch?" His brow wrinkled.
"Why do you always assume there's a catch?"
"Because it's you." She appraised him coolly, and he had to grin again.
"Well, actually, now that you mention it, there is one tiny, insignificant thing."
If he said insignificant, he meant exactly the opposite. She took a deep breath, and raised both eyebrows, inviting him to continue.
"If I tried to hold on to you, I might lose you. That would be bad. So' you'd have to let me drive." He was laughing behind those green eyes now. She felt inexorably drawn on to the conclusion, but didn't understand where she was being led.
"Drive what?"
He stroked a finger down her cheek in a gesture of unmistakable intimacy, and she recoiled slightly out of habit, though his touch was gentle.
"You'd have to let me possess you, babe."