Remembrance (The Mediator #7) Read Free Page B

Ghost Mediator (which is, I’m sorry to say, based on a best-selling video and role-playing game of the same name).
    The “reality” is heartbreaking and sometimes quite violent . . . as my need for new boots illustrated.
    Except, of course, that in the end it was my “gift” that had enabled me to meet and get to know Jesse, and even help return his soul to his corporal self, though my boss and fellow mediator, Mission Academy principal Father Dominic, likes to think that was “a miracle” we should be grateful for. I’m still on the fence about whether or not I believe in miracles. There’s a rational and scientific explanation for everything. Even the “gift” of seeing ghosts seems to have a genetic component. There’s probably a scientific explanation for what happened with Jesse, too.
    One thing there’s no explanation for—at least that I’ve found so far—is Paul. Even though he’s the one who showed me the nifty time-jumping trick that eventually led to the “miracle” that brought Jesse back to the living from the dead, Paul didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart. He did it out of a desire to get in my pants.
    “Look, Paul,” I said. “You’re right. I do care. But about people, not houses. So why don’t you take your amends and your fancy new housing development and your private jet and stick them all up your external urethral orifice, which in case you don’t know is the medical term for dick hole. Adios, muchacho.”
    I started to hang up until the sound of Paul’s laughter stopped me.
    “Dick hole,” he repeated. “Really, Simon?”
    I couldn’t help placing the phone to my ear again. “Yes, really. I’m highly educated in the correct medical terms for sexual organs now, since I’m engaged to a doctor. And that isn’t just where you can stick your amends, by the way, it’s also what you are.”
    “Fine. But what about Jesse?”
    “What about Jesse?”
    “I could see you not caring about me, or about the house, but I think you’d be at least a little concerned about your boyfriend.”
    “I am, but I fail to see what your tearing down my house has to do with him.”
    “Only everything. Are you telling me you really don’t remember all those Egyptian funerary texts of Gramps’ that we used to study together after school? That hurts, Suze. That really hurts. Two mixed-up mediators, poring over ancient hieroglyphics . . . I thought we had something special.”
    When you’re a regular girl and a guy is horny for you, he invites you over to his house after school to watch videos.
    When you’re a mediator, he invites you over to study his grandfather’s ancient Egyptian funerary texts, so you can learn more about your calling.
    Yeah. I was real popular in high school.
    “What about them?” I demanded.
    “Oh, not much. I just thought you’d remember what the Book of the Dead said about what happens when a dwelling place that was once haunted is demolished . . . how a demon disturbed from its final resting place will unleash the wrath of eternal hellfire upon all it encounters, cursing even those it once held dear with the rage of a thousand suns. That kind of thing.”
    I swore—but silently, to myself.
    Paul’s grandfather, in addition to being absurdly wealthy, had also been one of the world’s most preeminent Egyptologists. When it came to obscure, ancient curses written on crumbling pieces of papyrus, the guy was top of his field.
    That’s why I was swearing. I’d been wrong: Paul wasn’t calling to make amends. This was something way, way worse.
    “Nice try, Paul,” I said, attempting to keep my voice light and my heart rate steady. “Except I’m pretty sure that one was about mummies buried in pyramids, not ghosts who once haunted residential homes in Northern California. And while Jesse was never exactly an angel, he was no demon, either.”
    “Maybe not to you. But he treated me like—”
    “Because you were always trying to exorcise him