Intrinsical - Lani Woodland [54]
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