Quil doesn't see her the next day. Or the one after. Not even the one after that.
Somehow, despite his dramatic attempts at apologising, he'd ended up ghost-free. It was tranquil in an I'm-a-pathetic-loner sort of way, just him and his god-awful singing along to the oldies hits that played non-stop on the radio. Sometimes, one of the pack would drop by, offering a mixture of pleasant company and irritating condescension, and he would have human contact for a short while (in whatever sense of human they were).
He had wanted her gone, and she had obliged.
So why was he half-expecting her to pop up behind him at any moment?
And, even worse - why did he want her to?
Quil didn't have to worry about the whole ghostly situation too deeply in her absence - he could at least pretend it was all a bad dream, even if, logically (because that part of his brain did occasionally work) he knew she existed.
She was just busy existing somewhere else. That was all.
The thought was enough to mollify Quil for the better part of the afternoon, allowing his mind to sit comfortably empty as he determinedly worked around the house. Sam, albeit reluctantly, had offered Quil the chance to make his own home, and he'd be seriously remiss if he didn't give it a proper shot. Still, that meant doing joyous tasks like scrubbing black mould from the ceiling with a broom, or chiselling the layers of hardened grime from the shower screen. His nostrils permanently stung from the acrid scent of bleach that seemed to linger in the shack - buying stocks in Clorox was a seriously great idea - and he was almost certain his fingerprints had all but melted away from the scrubbing.
Aside from his roommate situation, life on the hill was pretty damned good.
Embry visited him later that night with a bag of groceries and a six-pack, barging into the bedroom without even knocking.
"Jesus, Em, I could'a had my pants down," Quil laughed, turning his attention away from the half-assembled bed frame he had been puzzling over.
"You say that like I haven't seen it all before," Embry said, smirking. "I see you finally got something to sleep on. Guess you don't need my charity after all."
He teasingly shook the stuffed paper bag just out of Quil's reach, grinning as he scrambled from the floor.
"Please, my kidneys are screaming. There's only so much ramen and Red Bull my body can take," he whined, attempting - and failing - at putting on puppy-dog eyes.
"Gross," Embry said, wrinkling his nose. "Just take the shit. And maybe do some grocery shopping now and then. This place bums me out."
Quil rolled his eyes, loping across the room to collapse into a chair. "Dude, I'm like, flat broke, and pretty fucking tired. Don't come for the flophouse."
Embry grimaced. "Right. Just remember, you can always move into my mom's. Pretty sure you're her favourite, anyway."
"I can't man, she isn't -"
He snapped his mouth shut before anything else could slip out.
She isn't there.
Why was the girl even in his mind? For someone he'd spent precisely ten minutes with, she sure did occupy a concerning amount of space in his brain. In all honesty, he'd rather take a sledgehammer to his toes than consider the implications of that realisation.
Embry shot him a quizzical look, cocking his head to the side. "She isn't what? Good enough?"
"What? Christ, no. That's not what I meant. Just that she isn't you know, my mom. She'd probably get sick of me in a weekend."
"Right. Sure," he said, staring down into his half-empty beer.
The silence sat between them, stretched and uncomfortable.
Quil was half-tempted to prick his finger and go for round two. First, he'd pissed the girl off - and she'd disappeared without a second thought - and now his best friend was ready to knock his teeth out. All in one weird and awful week.
"Well, I'd better go. I'll see you later on patrol, anyway," Embry said, swilling the last of his beer before crushing the can in one palm.
"Yeah. Right. Thanks for coming by, man. I know this place sucks."
Embry cracked a smile. "You can say that again."
The clatter of the screen door punctuates his exit, and just like that, Quil's alone again.
For a guy with twelve voices in his head on a bad day, he's awfully lonely, and none of it makes sense to him.
He buries his head in the IKEA pamphlets, puzzling over the damned directions like a man who's never seen a toolbox before (totally untrue, for the record). He's halfway under the frame, attempting to wiggle the cursed mortise and tenon into place, and it's so close, he's almost there -
"You should be nicer to him. It's not his fault you're an infernal dickhead."
Quil barks out a guttural blend of curses when his head collides with the bed slats.
"Jesus, could you give me a warning next time? Christ," he mutters, rubbing the growing lump on his brow. "Bloody ghosts."
"Please. It's far more fun this way."
"For you," he points out, though his grumpiness is quickly melting away, quickly forgotten in a mental deluge of she's back! she's back! she's back!
"Yeah, you're right," she laughs, and it's like Christmas and his birthday have come at once. "You miss me?"
"Presumptuous, aren't you?"
"Oh, I didn't realise we were on to ten-dollar words. How endearing," she murmurs, her voice honey-sweet with the usual bite.
It's only when he pauses to contemplate her words that he realises.
They're in his room.
His room, with no mirrors.
She speaks, and yet she has no face.
"Hey, uh, Mary? How are you...here?" He tries to keep his voice even, but Quil's almost positive she can sense his discomfort.
"Oh, I'm not bound to the mirror. I'm bound to the house. The mirror was just the vessel to drag me out," she says, and he's sure she'd be grinning if he could see her.
"Look, I'm just going to assume you saw the bathroom," Quil says, wrinkling his nose at the thought of the smeared blood. "I'm sorry for being an asshole. I just thought you'd want out of here."
A pregnant silence stretches between them. He's not quite sure whether she's still in the room - the perks of invisibility, he muses - and he's torn between grovelling for her forgiveness and simply staking it out. Her track record points to her reappearing...eventually. He turns back to the bed frame, determined to finish the wretched job, only to find the crumpled manual missing.
"Really, Mary? You're on thin ice, my dude. I know an exorcism guy," Quil says, but it's without any malice.
Besides, Old Quil would never set foot in this hellhole.
She snorts, launching the fluttering pages across the room in a curving arc. "As if. I'd totally be on my best behaviour for a priest, nice and quiet, all that good stuff. You're stuck with me, bud."
Quil sighs in mock defeat, but he doesn't bother hiding the smile spreading across his face. "I suppose I can tolerate you. So, ghost, where've you been?"
"Oh, just around. Not like I can really go far. Hey, I saw your friend down by the main house. She's cute. You should bring her around sometime."
He raises an eyebrow, weighing up the possibilities. "Who? The one with the scars?"
She lets out a low whistle. "Nah, the grumpy one. She looks like fun."
Quil laughs in disbelief. "Of course you'd like Leah. You two would make a dangerous alliance."
"Leah! Yes, that's her. Can you ask her tomorrow? No offence, you're fine and all, but I need some excitement, you know?"
If he could see the girl, he's sure she'd be bouncing in excitement.
It makes this next part just that much harder.
"Mary...I can't. I can't introduce you to anyone. Please, tell me you get it," Quil says, feeling far more tormented by this conversation than he'd expected.
"Why? You embarrassed about having a roommate? I'll be good, I promise," she says, her wheedling tone whittling away at his resistance.
"What if she can't see you? I can't deal with being committed right now," he mutters, thinking back to Bella's holiday stay at the hospital. He'd rather die a thousand deaths than sign up for seclusion.
She huffs. "Don't be ridiculous. They won't commit a werewolf."
The Allen key snaps in his grip.
"How...do you know that?" he queries, his voice low and slow.
"I'm literally attached to this house. I have nothing better to do than watch you every day. Nice butt, by the way."
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, feeling his cheeks burn red. "I think we need some house rules."
"House rules for housemates," she sings, trailing an icy cold finger along the smooth skin of his neck.
Between the temperature and the proximity, he can't help but shiver.
It's clear: Quil is completely, undoubtedly, in deep trouble, and the likelihood of resisting her sweet seduction is somehow even lower than getting a day off patrols.
He's cursed, and he's complicit: the definition of a truly hopeless cause.