Kissing Midnight (35 page)

She’s leading Jesse into the light.

Of course she is. She should. Jesse is a ghost, and she deserves to be at rest, just like the others. Above us, the light glows warm and inviting. I love Jesse, I know that now, but would real love deny her that peace? It would be selfish to ask her to stay.

“You’re free,” I whisper, my throat thick with tears. “This is your chance. You did what you stayed to do. You can go.”

Jesse looks so pained it makes me cry harder. “I know I
can
,” she says, “but I don’t
want
to. I want to stay with you.”

I shake my head, crying so hard now I can barely speak. “You can’t stay trapped here for my sake. You can’t stay a ghost for me.”

“And she won’t.” Charlotte’s voice is silvery and thin, as if it’s already coming from somewhere far away. She reaches out her hand and I think
this is it, she’s going to pull her into the light and I will have to let her go
.

But she doesn’t take Jesse’s hand. Instead, she lays her palm gently over Jesse’s heart. It’s a small gesture, but I sense the power behind it—power that doesn’t just come
from
Charlotte but
through
her, from all the midnight girls who have gone into the light, and maybe even from the light itself.

Jesse shuts her eyes and I can feel something shift. Charlotte’s hand stays transparent, but Jesse…

I gasp. Jesse is growing brighter and more solid as I watch. The color starts where Charlotte’s hand touches her and spreads all the way through her, from the top of her pale blond hair down her skinny frame to the toes of her battered sneakers until she stands in front of me, her cheeks red with the cold, as solid as I am.

I gape at her. “You’re…”

“Alive.” Her smile seems very bright now that I can’t see through her. She has freckles on the bridge of her nose that I couldn’t see properly before, and they’re adorable. I want to kiss every one of them. “I’m alive.”

“Consider it a gift.” Charlotte smiles.

“I will.” Jesse’s gray eyes are the same as always. They meet mine and my heart feels like a firework in my chest. “This time, I will.” She takes my hand in hers, warm and solid and real, and when she kisses me I can feel the heat of her lips and the cool tears on her cheeks. This time, it’s only her kissing me, with nothing to come between us and I kiss her back deeply—and, yes,
boldly
—as the grand finale of the fireworks show explodes in the sky above us. My hands roam over her solid shoulders, the reality of her arms, her hips in her faded jeans.

When we finally come up for air, Charlotte is gone. The sky above us has healed shut, but I feel like some tiny piece of the light has stayed here with us.

“Amazing.”

We both turn, startled, at the sound of her voice. Delia is still sitting by the balcony doors, her curls wild with the wind, her makeup smudged with tears, but a look of awe on her face. I don’t know how much of that she could see, but it must have been enough.

And beside her, framed in the doorway and wearing an identical look of awe, stands Dr. Sterling. Dev must really have called him after all.

“Amazing,” he echoes. “I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” He shakes his head in wonder. “It was real all along?”

“Yes,” I say. “It was real all along.” The horrors, and the joys, too. All of it.

Somewhere below us, someone is singing “May old acquaintance be forgot…” with drunken gusto. Dance music blares from the masquerade ball, and laughter echoes across the quad.

Life, starting another round.

Jesse pulls me close, her breath warm against my cheek. “Happy New Year.”

I smile up at her. “Happy New Year.”

Saintly

“You sure you’re up for this?” Jesse tilts her head to the side, studying me with those ghost-gray eyes.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”

She puts her arm around me and gives me a squeeze. Even after ten whole months of having Jesse amongst the living, the solidity of her touch still thrills me. In a way, I feel like we’ve been in love forever, and yet I never want to take it for granted. “Well,” she says, “then let’s go.”

We step out from under the awning of my grandmother’s church. It’s October, of course—the first day of Dias do los Muertos, the Days of the Dead—but this is Mexico and the weather is still warm, even now, after dark. Joining the procession headed for the cemetery is like stepping into a current. The smell of copal incense mingles with the sweet scent of the
cempusuchilles
, the marigolds the color of monarch wings that decorate the graves. All around me, people dressed in white carry flowers and rosaries and photos of the loved ones they have lost to place on the
ofrendas
they have built to honor them. I cradle my picture of Enrique close to my chest. This will be my first time placing his picture on the
ofrenda
—my first time visiting his grave at all. At first, I was opposed to my mother burying him in Mexico, but now I’m glad she did. Death feels different here, less final. The crowd is respectful but festive, somehow, too, and songs mingle with the
Dios te salves
and the
rosarias
.

Jesse steals a glance at me. Even with her new haircut, her bangs always fall in her eyes. She sweeps them out of her way. “You okay?”

I give her a reassuring smile and squeeze her hand a little tighter.

We round the bend toward the cemetery and I look over my shoulder to make sure the others are still following. I spot Delia right away in her bright yellow sun dress, her blond pigtails golden in the light of her candle. Dr. Sterling is close beside her, looking like the ultimate gringo in his straw hat and button-down shirt. I smile in spite of myself. I’m glad I asked him to come. After all, we owe Dr. Sterling a lot, considering how he has “taken responsibility for my care” and smoothed things over with Westgate. That and the fact that he never pressed charges on us for stealing his car.

And in return, Jesse has answered his millions of questions about what it’s like to be a ghost. I don’t actually think she minds. It’s good for her to have someone to talk to, and it has certainly opened Dr. Sterling’s mind. The man who once thought this was all a hallucination is now a true believer. He says he’s going to write a book about the spirits we’ve sent into the light—the midnight girls, and the dozen or so we’ve helped since. He says it’s our calling, setting the spirits free.

I don’t think I will have to send Enrique on. I believe my brother has gone into the light on his own. But if I do meet him here in the cemetery, I know what to do. I’ll tell him the same thing I tell all the spirits: Change is hard. No one knows that better than I do. Not everyone is ready to make that leap. But when you are, I tell them, the light will be waiting.

When you’re ready, I say, be bold.

So many people encouraged and supported
Kissing Midnight
and I owe you all a debt of gratitude!

First and foremost, I want to thank my beautiful wife, Marcy. Without you, the seed that became
Kissing Midnight
would never have been planted at all. I am eternally grateful for all you do, and particularly for the time, years ago, when you rode a Greyhound bus half way across the country just to kiss me at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I truly would have died without that kiss.

I also want to thank my amazing kids, Shanika, Harrison and Miranda, for always cheering me up and cheering me on. You inspire me and I love you.

And where would I be without the magical twenty-one? You are my sisters and co-workers and partners in crime, and you have kept me from jumping off the clock tower a few times over. If there is ever an apocalypse and the internet dies, I will hunt each one of you down in person and hug you like crazy because I know I couldn’t live without you.

Many thanks to my brave editor, Craig Lancaster, who put a ton of work into making me look good. Your professionalism and attention to detail are hugely appreciated and I feel far more secure knowing you’ve got my back.

Thanks to Damon Za for creating a cover so beautiful it made me want to write a better book, just to live up to it, and to Lucinda Campbell for formatting that book so well.

Thanks to Kelly Moorhouse, reader and blogger extraordinaire, for volunteering to organize the
Kissing Midnight
blog tour. Your enthusiasm is contagious! I only hope we meet some day so I can thank you in person.

Thanks to my critique group, the Death Pixies, for being my writing support network for the past nine years. We may not see each other often, but I am a braver writer because of you and you’re always in my thoughts.

Many thanks, too, to all of the bloggers and readers and fellow authors I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know over the past few years, particularly the passionate readers of Bookaholics Anonymous. Your support of indie authors is inspiring. I want to say a special thank you to Kirsten Rain, who took time to encourage me even when she had struggles of her own to deal with, and to Jenna Tousignant, for her loving check-ins and endless confidence in me. And many thanks to Tressa Sager, Adriane Tait-Boyd and Delphina Miyares for being the best cheerleaders an author could ever want. Getting to know you all has been a gift.

And lastly, I want to thank all the rogue midnight girls who dare to think outside the box.
Kissing Midnight
was written for you. Thanks for being bold.

Laura Bradley Rede is a Writers of the Future Award winner for fantasy and science fiction and the author of
Kissing Midnight
, as well as the YA paranormal romance series, The Darkride Chronicles (
Darkride
and
Crossfire
). She lives in Minneapolis with her partner, their three children, three cats, and a small flock of city chickens. You can find her at
www.laurabradleyrede.com
or on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/LauraBradleyRedeAuthor
.