Free The Wicked City by Megan Morgan Page A

burned her throat and chest, which she’d been hoping for.
    “I don’t think I can handle much more of this shit,” she said.
    Micha, back in bed under the covers, had a cup of tea. He took a sip. “I don’t think you have to worry about a ghost. She may have a message, but she can’t do anything. The dead are just that, dead.”
    She glanced down at her cup, at her reflection in the dark liquid. She looked tired. “Do you think I’ll get him out? Jason?”
    “Yes.”
    She looked up.
    “And I’m not just saying that.” Micha smiled.
    “Thanks,” she said softly.
    They were silent for a few minutes. June took a big drink of her coffee and winced. The burn focused her thoughts.
    “So,” she said. “What do you think is gonna happen to you? I guess you can’t hide forever.”
    “Does it matter?”
    “Yes, it matters.”
    “I guess only time will tell.”
    She took another drink. The whiskey trickled down her spine and a tingling heat spread outward, over her limbs. Optimism crept in, just a little. “Yeah, I guess it will.”
    “You wanna sleep in here with me now?” Micha set his cup aside.
    “Like a little kid hiding from monsters in her parents’ room?”
    “I’m a little freaked out, too.”
    “You just want me in bed with you.”
    Micha arched an eyebrow. “That bother you?”
    “I feel guilty about what I did earlier. Especially now with your wife showing up.”
    Micha scooted down and lay back against the pillows. He stretched out and folded his arms above his head. His T-shirt rode up, giving her a glimpse of tight, smooth skin.
    “I’m just asking if you want to sleep in here so neither of us will be spooked,” he said. “What’s on your dirty mind?”
    “Oh, that’s not fair.”
    “What isn’t?”
    “That.” She gestured at his body.
    Micha pulled the covers down next to him. “I promise I won’t touch you, if you feel that bad about it.”
    She slid off the bed. “Screw it then. I’ll go back to the sofa.”
    “You’re the one who just got all pious!”
    She plunked her cup down on the bedside stand next to Micha’s. She picked his up and sniffed. The smell of whiskey filled her nostrils. Bourbon, actually. Fruitier.
    “Lush.” She put the cup down. “I knew you weren’t just sipping tea.”
    Micha stretched out, one arm behind his head, the other still holding the covers back. “Get in bed.”
    * * * *
    June awoke to sunlight and the sound of a television. She shifted and found her body both warm and comfortable, which almost made up for the light and noise. For a moment the shit-storm her life had become remained silent, her mind blissfully blank. Then she opened her eyes and all the bad stuff rushed in. Ghosts. The Institute. Jason. Bullshit.
    She lifted her head and winced at the light. Apparently, fancy hotels couldn’t afford curtains after they got done making the gold toilets. But they had curtains, her bedmate apparently didn’t believe in them.
    Her bedmate.
    Micha lay beside her, several pillows elevating his head, covers pulled up to his chest. He held the TV remote. “Morning. I didn’t wake you with the TV, did I?”
    June smacked her lips. The taste of whiskey lingered in her mouth. “What time is it?”
    Micha rolled his head on the pillows and looked at the clock on the other side of him. “Eight thirty-six.”
    She pushed herself up on one elbow. Her usual morning processes kicked in: the craving for nicotine, firing up like a jet engine; a few coughs to clear her lungs and remind her that if the Institute didn’t kill her, her habit would; the nagging need to empty her bladder.
    “What are you watching?” She squinted at the TV. A silver-haired man was talking about reforming something while a stock ticker scrolled across the bottom of the screen, next to a box showing the weather forecast. Today would be cold.
    “The news,” Micha said. “It’s pretty biased here, but you take what you can get.”
    June shifted and winced. She