Duck Duck Ghost (6 page)

“God, you think?” Tristan groused, standing up to answer a knock at the suite’s door. “I barely survived the first one.”

W
ITH
T
RISTAN
gone to check over the staff’s work before they clocked out for the day, Wolf busied himself in the kitchen, looking for something to cook. He found a loaf of brioche, a few heirloom tomatoes, and enough cheese to drown a township in. Slicing the cheddar into thin planks, he set about to make grilled sandwiches. He had his hand on the back of a kitchen knife when Mara’s voice broke the silence in the room.

“It’s about time you got your ass back here,” the ghost huffed. “Boy’s been worrying himself sick.”

The knife skittered across the chopping board, and Wolf let it go, not wanting to cut himself on the sharp blade. Giving Mara a dirty look, he inspected the cheese hunk and resignedly popped the sliver he’d cut off into his mouth, deeming it too unevenly cut for his purposes.

“I was only gone a little while, and it showed me I needed my head pulled out of my ass,” Wolf pointed out. “And I tried to get a hold of him. Or didn’t he tell you that? Besides, he had my sister to keep him company. You’d like her if ever you get around to meeting her. She says you two haven’t met.”

“She can’t see me,” Mara moved through the kitchen counter to stand on the other side so she could watch Wolf as he sliced cheese. “I’ve tried. I’ve even flashed her. And I’ve got some killer boobs. Want to see?”

“Gay. They won’t do a thing for me.”

“Pity, because they’re spectacular.” She hefted her breasts through her uniform. “Hell, I wasn’t even sure
you’d
see me.”

“Why? I’d seen you before.” Wolf picked up a piece of brie, wondering if he shouldn’t make the sandwiches out of that, when Mara’s body flickered. “What the hell is going on here? Why can’t my sister see you?”

“Same reason the Grange isn’t getting any visitors, Kincaid,” she replied sadly. “The place feels off, love. Something that woman did drained it
—
drained him. The one your two scallywags brought here. The Winifred woman, not your mother
—
although she didn’t do us any favors.”

“How can a place feel off?” Wolf put the knife down and stared at the now transparent specter. “Whatever Mortimer put on this place to make it… whatever the hell it is, that still works.”

“You all drove Winifred out, remember? What did you think was going to happen to the rest of us? Those of us who aren’t driven by rage? We don’t have the power to fight that pushing out.” Mara’s hands moved like frantic doves in the air as she spoke. “I keep hoping it will heal itself, especially since that girl came, but so far, nothing. Only a few very strong spirits have crossed the threshold, and those are few and far between.”

“Fuck.” Wolf’s heart lurched, then sank. If what Mara said was true, he’d destroyed everything Tristan lived for. That thought set his mind reeling, and he mutely stared out into the living area, wondering what the hell he could do. “And here I was kind of hoping he’d consider coming with me down to San Luis Obispo to my cousin’s place. I thought if Ophelia Sunday could see the… shit. Shit!”

“What were you going to do there?” Mara wandered about, sometimes crossing through the counter as she walked around the room. “It might not be a bad thing for him to go if it’s something that would take his mind off of things. The boy needs some time away from the dead. I love him, but talking to ghosts and dogs all day has got to be bad for your belfry.”

“Sey—my cousin—has this toy hospital thing. Well, used to be a bed-and-breakfast her grandma started. Now it’s a farm for wayward animals and a house with a lot of old dolls and teddy bears. Sey’s one of the more normal Kincaids—steady, you know? But she told my mom there’s been some odd things going on over at her place.” Wolf shrugged. “And by odd, she meant boo-wigglies. I figured Tristan might want to take a break and go on a road trip. Now I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s more than the right thing,” Mara insisted. “You
have
to get him to go. Do you have any idea when the last time that boy left this place for longer than a day or two? You’d think he was guarding the crown jewels or feeding the Tower’s ravens.”

“If the Grange is—” He didn’t want to say it, but there weren’t a lot of words to choose from. “He won’t want to go with me. Hell, I’m not even sure if he’s forgiven me yet.”

“He hasn’t stabbed you with a pencil, so that’s a good sign.” Mara made a face at Wolf’s lifted eyebrows. “He did that once to that milquetoast of an uncle of his. I don’t think that man ever forgave him for that, but the boy was six, and Walter
is
such a fricking ass.”

“I’ll try, but it’ll probably turn out to be a bust. They usually are.” Wolf leaned on the counter. “Hate to tell you this, Mara, but a lot of times people see ghosts when it’s nothing more than a house’s foundation giving way or bats up in the attic. The real attic. Although there’s been a real belfry or five too. Never discount the crazy.”

“You have to get him to go.” Mara sounded almost desperate, and Wolf frowned at the distress in her voice. “Maybe doing this—with you—will give the boy some kind of purpose. Maybe getting out there, into the world, instead of waiting on the dead in a dying heap of stone and fog.”

“I’ll do my best,” Wolf promised her. “It’s all—”

Boris’s toenails clicked on the hallway floor outside of the suite, and the door creaked as the enormous wolfhound pushed his way in. Spotting Wolf in the kitchen, the dog ambled over and bumped the man’s leg, peering up at him through scruffy eyebrows in the hopes of getting a piece of whatever Wolf was cutting.

Tristan came in on the dog’s heels, tossing a pack of staff papers onto the table by the door. Looking about curiously, he smiled tentatively at Wolf. “Who are you talking to? Boris?”

“Um….” Wolf glanced at Mara, floating a few feet in front of him. She shook her head, and he cleared his throat. “No one. Just talking some things out. I’ve got something I want to ask you, if you’ve gotten around to forgiving me yet.”

“I’m thinking about it.” Tristan snagged a piece of cheese, his hand cutting through Mara’s midsection. After taking a bite out of the orange square, he broke off a piece and offered it to the dog. “Here you go, Boris. Just no farting, okay?”

Wolf watched Mara drift through the blond’s body, her face wistful as she passed into Tristan’s skin and out the other side. She shook her head and sighed, but Wolf wasn’t sure if Tristan felt even the typical chill of a nearby ghost, especially when he leaned over to ruffle Boris’s ears and neither reacted to Mara’s presence.

“Convince him, Kincaid.
Please
.” Mara’s form began to thin, and a moment later, he was left with only the burn of her face in his memories, but her voice crept past him with a chilly whisper. “Get him to go with you, and show him a bit of the world. Before he dies here alongside this house and the rest of us.”

“H
EY
,
LITTLE
sister, what have you done?” Wolf sang and lifted his lip at Ophelia Sunday as he strode into the room she’d apparently claimed as her own.

Hoxne Grange was set up as a maze of halls and rooms, and he’d explored nearly every square inch of the mansion when he’d been investigating Tristan. There were names and labels attached to every damned corner of the place, and his head swam trying to remember where the family breakfast room was or if the Thistle Room was on the first or second floor.

He was pretty sure there was a map of the place or at least something Tristan might have shown a ghost or three, but like getting lost while driving, he wasn’t going to man up and ask for directions.

Sadly, the only reason he’d found Ophelia Sunday was because she was singing an old show tune at the top of her lungs, and Wolf simply followed the off-key rendition of “Hello Dolly” until he stumbled on the right room.

“Great, now I have to burn the rugs,” she muttered, rolling her eyes before going back to the thick book she had balanced on her lap. “Someone let a Yeti in, and it’s shit on the carpet.”

He wasn’t sure what defined a drawing room, library, or sitting room. From what he could tell, they all pretty much looked the same, with the exception of the main library, a cavernous two-story room situated at the back of the house.
That
room was a bibliophile’s wet dream, and he’d dug into a few of the antique anthropology books before he’d gotten waylaid by Tristan’s deep green eyes.

For all he knew, the books he’d taken back up to his room were still there. And from how he and Tristan left off, he’d have ample time to read them when he retired to its chilly confines later that evening—the
very
chilly confines.

The library or study, whichever this room was called, seemed to fit his sister’s style. An eclectic mix of Egyptian and Victorian Orient, the furniture looked comfortable, if a bit worn. Tall arched windows looked out onto the front lawn, and she’d pulled back all of the heavy burgundy drapes to let as much sun as she could into the room. The mishmash of tapestries and patterns shouldn’t have worked, especially not the beige-toned Persian rug under her feet, but the room not only suited her, she seemed to be more relaxed than he’d ever seen her before.

Until she opened her mouth. Then the bratty younger sister he’d grown up with emerged in full Valkyrie form, ready to do battle with a sharpened tooth and a wicked tongue.

“Piss Tristan off yet?” Ophelia Sunday smirked at his uncomfortable throat clearing. “Not bad. I owe Mom ten dollars. She said you’d do it before sundown. He’s so mellow. I thought it’d be at least tomorrow.”

“Good to know you’ve got my back, Ophie.” He dodged the small stack of Post-it Notes she chucked at his head. They flew past him, skipping over a table like a stone on a lake. “Your aim is shit.”

“So’s your love life. I’d tell you not to call me that, but that’ll just egg you on,” she countered. Her eyes, so much like his own, peeled away the thick layer of smug and cockiness he’d spackled on himself. “I like him, Wolf. Not romantically, but he’s a sweetheart. A bit weird, but really, look at our family—not like we can throw stones.”

“Yeah, I like him too,” he admitted.

“Then why did you fuck it up?”

“Because I’m an idiot. Because I’m new at this.” He sprawled onto a sofa across of her, studying the stylized cherrywood alligators the set had for legs. “A whole bunch of becauses. Why are you here?”

“Because I’m sick of working at a crystal shop—”

“You own the crystal shop,” Wolf pointed out.

“But I’m not doing anything… vivid with my life.” She held up the book she’d been reading, tossing her long black hair away from her face. “Do you see this?
An Examination of Spectral Activity
by Archibald Pryce. The library has a million of these kinds of studies, and Tristan needs… help.”

“Can you do that? Help? How much do you see here?”

She’d always been a sensitive, someone the family could count on to feel paranormal activity, but like most people, actually seeing a manifestation was rare.

Until he’d come to Hoxne Grange—then he saw all manner of things, including some he’d rather forget.

“It’s getting stronger. The shapes are more defined.” Tucking her legs under her skirt, Ophelia Sunday laid the book down next to her and studied her brother. “I think it has something to do with what Mortimer Pryce did to the place, and well, Tristan’s… strong.”

“Yeah, I got that,” he agreed softly. “Too strong. And he’s been stewing in this shit for too long because he can’t get away.”

“That’s where I come in,” his sister replied. “I’ve got a couple of managers to run the shop. Hell, I barely go there most days. I need to do something different, Wolf. Something more than saying have a nice day and yes, hematite is good for canceling out negative energy. And I’m all for smudging, but is that all there is to life?”

“There’s also tea parties.” Wolf grinned at Ophelia Sunday’s defiantly flashed middle finger. “Seriously, you’re really going to stay here? And do what?”

“Help with the hotel—”

“It’s not a hotel,” Wolf asserted.

“There are guests, even if they aren’t alive. And admit it, the whole thing is fascinating! Tell me you don’t want to dig right into it and see why this place attracts the dead.”

“He won’t let me—dig, I mean.” He stole the bottle of ginger ale his sister had left on a table next to her, nearly toppling off the sofa when he reached for it. “I’ve been forbidden to study the Grange. He’s afraid I’ll fuck something up.”

“I think Mom’s already done that.” Ophelia Sunday smoothed her skirts. “There haven’t been a lot of guests arriving.”

“Yeah, I heard.” He didn’t want to tell her about Mara struggling to get Tristan to see her. In true Ophelia Sunday fashion, she’d jumped right onto the sore spot he’d been hiding. He sipped at the bubbling soda, then held the plastic bottle out for his sister. “I’m really worried about him.”