Duck Duck Ghost (5 page)

W
OLF
BECAME
Tristan’s shadow, at least for as long as it took the men to climb the long flights of stairs to the Grange’s third floor. Not surprisingly, the Grange bore no evidence of the paranormal battle waged there a month before. Winifred left very little of her existence behind, other than a few broken pieces of furniture. Even the powerful, erratic spectrum readings the team registered before Gidget accidentally called up Matt’s dead but murderous grandmother dropped down afterward to levels Wolf would expect he’d find at a local BART station. Sure, the Cook showing up brought a sense of relief to Tristan’s worried mind, but the man’d fretted over his lack of guests before Wolf fought with him.

From the slump in Tristan’s shoulders as they slogged up the stairs, things apparently went from depressing to worse while Wolf was in Florida getting his ass chewed on by gators.

Reaching the third floor, Wolf noticed the door to Mortimer Pryce’s rooms were open. Up until recently, Tristan never ventured inside his deceased uncle’s suite, choosing instead to let the man’s memories steep into the walls like a very strong black tea.

They walked by the open doors without so much as a glance from Tristan, and if anything, that worried Wolf the most. Something was definitely wrong with the man, and Wolf’s gut twisted, hating that he’d added to the press of problems Tristan seemed to be carrying on his shoulders.

“Hey, wait up,” Wolf called out, hefting his bag up. “Tris!”

“God, I can’t… deal with you right now.” Tristan hit the door to his suite with a hard push of his hand. Unlatched, it swung open, slamming into the wall, then bounced back, nearly catching Wolf in the chin.

He snagged the door’s edge before it struck him and entered cautiously. Never having actually been in a fight with Tristan, Wolf wasn’t sure if Tris was a yeller or a thrower, and nothing said
I’m pissed off at you
like a well-aimed vase or plate.

Apparently, Tristan was a pacer, because he hit the length of the suite’s main room in a steady stride, his beautiful face firm with anger. The man’s eyes were hard and cold, glacially green against amber stars, and Wolf winced at the unspoken accusation of betrayal thrown at him in Tristan’s heartbreaking expression.

“Talk to me, Thursday Addams.” Wolf tried teasing the man out of his mood, but Tristan wasn’t having any of it.

“You don’t get to call me that. No Tris, no Tristan.” He rounded on Wolf accusingly. “Shit, you don’t even get to call me Pryce. God, do you know what you’ve done to me? You’ve made me
want
this thing between us, then—”

“Let’s take this one thing at a time.” Wolf crossed the room and dug into the cabinets of the wing’s open kitchenette off the living room. He dug out coffee grounds and made up a pot to percolate. Tristan continued to mark off the length of the space, angling to avoid the scatter of couches near one wall. “What do you want to deal with first?”

“First? How about we go from last to the start? Your fucking report skewered me!”

“Tell me what’s going on with your uncle—”

“Not just my uncle!” Tristan’s finger waved about as furiously as a conductor’s wand during an 1812 Overture performance. “My whole damned family! Because you told them—and I quote—
there is no recordable evidence of paranormal activity at Hoxne Grange
.”

“Wait!” Wolf abandoned the coffee watch and headed into the living room. “Tris, hold up. I didn’t—”

“Not Tris. Sir. Maybe sir.” He cautioned Wolf against hugging him with a light shove. “And not like in a leather harness kind of way.”

“Okay, if we’re going to hammer this out, I don’t need the image of you in leather pants in my head.” Wolf sighed. “Come on, let me explain. About the report first.”

“What’s there to say?” Tristan’s voice grew deeper, a menacing growl Wolf didn’t think Tristan was even capable of uttering. “You pretty much sent them a dressmaker pattern for them to make me a custom straitjacket. Do you think they’ll at least let me choose what color canvas I’ll be wearing? I’m thinking something in a heather tweed. Might as well be fucking comfortable and warm.”

“Tristan, stop.” Wolf grabbed at the man, holding him in place.

They had a brief battle, but Tristan’s heart wasn’t in it. A second later, he gave up the fight, but he snarled when Wolf tried to embrace him.

“Okay. No hugs, but shit, go sit down on the couch, and I’ll bring you some coffee. We can work this out.”

“Can I bash your head in with the cup? Because that’s pretty much what would work for me,” Tristan muttered as he pulled away, but Wolf was relieved to see him head over to one of the sofas.

“I’ll bring you something heavy. Wouldn’t want you to do something halfway,” he promised. A minute later, he was carefully handing his lover a steaming cup of creamy coffee, cautioning him against its heat. “Now talk to me about what happened with your family. Shit, I was only gone a damned week. How much can happen in a damned week?”

“You and I happened in a week.” Tristan sounded bitter as he sipped at his cup. “And you fucked
that
up in less than a day. So yeah, a lot can happen in seven days.”

Wolf counted to ten. Looking around the room, he took in the whimsical artwork lining its walls and noticed how the watery sun turned the walls to a buttery hue. Taking a deep breath, Wolf counted again, down this time, before speaking.

He’d already fucked up his relationship with Tristan because he couldn’t keep his temper. There’d be no going back if he let his anger rule the conversation and—being honest with himself—it gave him time to study the other man.

“Okay, let’s get this thing between us off the table first. We’ll deal with the family thing after.” Wolf took Tristan’s cup and set it down to the side. The table was warm where the mug’d been, a nice spot under his butt when he moved over to sit on the table, his knees on either side of Tristan’s bent legs. Putting his hands on Tristan’s thighs, he looked deep into his lover’s eyes. “I am very sorry. I fucked us up. Beyond fucked up.”

“Which time?” Tristan snorted. “The argument where you told me I imagined the whole thing with Winifred the ghost? The peeing on my foot when we were stoned off of your mom’s whacked-out leftover honey? Or maybe it’s the whole agreeing with my family that I’m nuts? Pick one. Let me know where to start.”

“Yes. All of it. Except for the family thing. I did
not
say you were insane.” Wolf sucked in a long breath and slowly let it out. “The pee thing was a mistake. The argument was—I got scared, Tris.
Really
fucking scared.”

“
You
were scared? It wasn’t you Winifred was trying to possess.”

“Not Winifred. Forget about Winifred—”

“Not bloody likely in this lifetime.”

“Okay, how about for the next half hour,” Wolf said patiently. “Thing is,
you
scared me. Well, me wanting you. My track record with relationships is really shitty. I’ve been dumped more times than I can even count, mostly because, let’s face it, I’m an asshole, and I get too far gone into my work.”

“Agreed,” Tristan interjected. “And not just your work.”

“Thing is, with you,” he murmured as he took Tristan’s hands in his, “I’m scared. Shit, you and I went from zero to ninety in such a short time. I felt out of control, and then you made that baklava—”

“Still totally not my fault.” Tristan eyed him suspiciously. “I’ve never had someone leave peyote-laced honey in my kitchen before.”

“You think it was peyote?” Wolf thought about the odd animals he had dancing on his stomach that morning. “Could have been, but I don’t know. She didn’t tell me what it was exactly.”

“I went with peyote because it was all I could think of.” Tristan shuddered visibly. “You
peed
on my foot.”

“To be fair, it did have flaming ants on it. I was worried you’d get hurt.” Wolf shifted closer. “I’ve told my mom she’s forbidden from leaving anything here again. Hell, if I had my way, I’d ban her from the Grange entirely.”

“Can’t. She loaned me your sister.” Tristan let a small grin get past his anger. “And she can kind of see the ghosts. Well, what there are of them.”

“So she told me. It explains what my mother was angling for when I saw her in the city.”

“Your mom told you to come here?” Just like that, Tristan’s faint smile was gone. “Really?”

“No, not really. I’ve been texting you, remember? I was going to head up here anyway.” Wolf wished Tristan’s smile would come back out. “She just came to me to ask me a favor for the family. She seemed to think I could get you to come with me.”

“I’m pissed off at you. Remember that?”

“Yeah.” Wolf grimaced. “I was kind of hoping I could beg for forgiveness, but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to take a bit more than a few apologies.”

“Pretty much.” Tristan nodded. “Especially since you’ve made your bed with my uncle.”

“That is not what my report said.” Wolf’s growl was impressive, a subtonal blend of anger and angst.

I
F
T
RISTAN
hadn’t been so angry and pissed off about his relatives’ hostile takeover bid of the Grange, he might have even spent some time seeing if he could get Wolf to make those sounds in bed. As it was, Tristan was more interested in skinning Wolf than kissing him.

“You wrote that you had no discernible evidence of paranormal activity.” Tristan could almost recite the report from memory, especially since entire sections of Wolf’s official documentation had been served up to him on a silver platter in his uncle’s complaint against him. “Or something like that.”

“Not discernible. Recordable. I had no documentation after Mrs. Killer Spook was done with my equipment,” Wolf refuted. “Where was the part where I clearly documented the spectrum shifts in the ballroom? We had that data. You read the report before I submitted it. Where did I state you were ready for a loony bin? They’re twisting my findings.”

“Would it have killed you to say you
saw
a ghost?” Tristan leaned back. “Or even mention
some
kind of strange shit? Did you have to go all scientific?”

“I
am
a scientist, Tris.” It was said apologetically, but Wolf was firm. “It’s what Hellsinger Investigations is all about—the science of paranormal activity. It’s what we do. It’s who your uncle hired, but I did
not
say you were ready for an asylum. If anything, you’re the sanest one of the bunch.”

“If I’m so sane, then why do I keep hoping the ghosts come back to the Grange?”

“You don’t have ghosts?” Wolf frowned deeply. “Since when?”

“Since Winifred,” Tristan admitted. “Not even a handful, and it scares the hell out of me. Suppose this thing with Winifred broke the Grange? Hell, suppose
I’m
broken now?”

W
OLF
’
S
HANDS
roamed, settling on his legs. Their heat was too tempting, especially when the man’s fingers began making small circles up and down his thighs. He wanted to push Wolf away, but he was scared if he did it once, Wolf would never come back.

If Wolf was scared of their relationship, then Tristan figured he must rank as terrified because, between the two of them, Tristan knew next to nothing about interacting with another person. Hell, he didn’t even have a relationship with his parents when they’d been alive, and Uncle Mortimer was as stiff-upper-lipped as possible. Wolf was the first person to ever really touch him—to hold him—and Tristan didn’t want to jeopardize that.

But screw it, he wasn’t going to be tossed under a bus driven by his Uncle Walter either. His uncle was intent on breaking Mortimer’s will, and damn what Tristan wanted.

If only he knew what he really wanted.

“Shit, babe.” Wolf let go of a long breath. “I didn’t know.”

“Suppose the spirits don’t come back?” Tristan’s brain apparently was tired of the back and forth and decided to take control. He hadn’t expected to blurt out his fears to Wolf, at least not until he could work out how he felt about the man, but there he was—sharing. And it seemed he just couldn’t shut up. “What do I do, then, Wolf? What if my family takes the Grange from me?”

So many fears clouded his mind, and Tristan couldn’t find the end of one and the beginning of the next. Sitting alone in the dark after Wolf’s stormy exit, he’d wondered if Wolf was ever going to come back. Then when the texts starting hitting his phone, he’d wondered if he should answer them. It would be better for Wolf if he wasn’t attached to Tristan in any way, better for his career if not his life, but Tristan wanted the normal Wolf gave him, even if normal wasn’t necessarily the term most people would use for what his life’d become with Wolf Kincaid in it.

It was one he’d come to use.

“I won’t let that happen,” Wolf said in his sweet, low voice. Sliding off forward, he hesitated for a moment before wrapping his arms around Tristan. “I’ll testify in person. Anything you need. You’re worth more to me than Hellsinger.”

“You… I can’t let you do it. I want you to do that. I’d be crazy if I said I didn’t, but truthfully, you’re right. It’s what you fucking do, even if I don’t agree with it.” He relaxed into Wolf’s arms, burying his face in the man’s dark hair. Wolf smelled so good, felt so good, and for the first time since he’d been served with his uncle’s papers, Tristan felt a glimmer of hope in his heart. “You’ve only known me—”

“I’ve known I’ve needed you since forever.” Wolf cut him off with a whisper dropped into Tristan’s ear. “It just took me a bit to finally meet you.”

“I still want to kill you,” Tristan admitted as Wolf risked giving him a tiny kiss on the side of his mouth.

“Yeah, but really, death is kind of what I’ve come to expect from Hoxne Grange,” Wolf muttered as he stole another kiss. “How about if I cook us up some lunch, and you can tell me why my sister’s moved in with you. The last thing this place needs is another Kincaid.”