Ghost Hunter

by Serena Akeroyd

  My grin is slow. “Maybe. There have to be some perks to the shitty stuff, right?”

  A twinkle glints in her eye. “I guess you’ve earned it.”

  I clap my hands together and rub them with expectation. “Guess that just means we have to wait for Paula to remember the dude’s name, right?”

  “Right.” She rolls her eyes at me, but it doesn’t stop her from leaning down and kissing the top of my head. “How are the shoulders?”

  “Better.” I glance her over. “You?”

  “I’m okay. I think I need an early night. Do you want some takeout?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Pizza?” When she nods, I ask, “The usual?” Another nod. “I’ll head out for it. I need some air.”

  “Okay. I’ll have a shower while you’re gone.”

  Kissing her farewell, I head out. Passing Mr. Rodgers who looks like he’s asleep on the job, again, I spot something on his table.

  A picture of Jayce?

  It’s a paper, and with a guilty look at the old guy, I slide it off his desk and start reading the article.

  “Shit.” I grimace as I realize the reporter who Jayce recently met with has slated her in the article.

  I’m not sure if that took balls or not.

  Jayce knows about the woman’s secret, and she’s fought fire with fire by slandering Jayce’s good name.

  The sad thing is, I know Jayce will get a kick out of it. She’ll probably prefer the bitch to have done this than for her to have sucked ass, but I don’t like it.

  Not one bit.

  Making note of the name of the paper, I head out onto the streets. Spying a copy, I grab one from the nearest newspaper dispenser, and tuck it under my arm.

  Ten minutes later, I’m on my way back to the building. Only this time, Mr. Rodgers isn’t in the foyer.

  I’m not entirely sure where he goes when he does these little disappearing acts. I just know he’s ready for mandatory retirement, which makes me feel like a real bastard, because the old coot is nice…but he’s supposed to keep the building secure.

  How can he do that when he’s rarely at his desk, or is asleep on it?

  Huffing, I head to the elevator. As the door closes, the scent of oregano overloads the small conveyance, making my mouth water. But just as the faint tomato-sauce-loaded air starts to make my taste buds tango, the temperature in the elevator drops.

  And I mean, drops.

  From the usual stuffiness of a too-small enclosed space, to a refrigerator. Then, just as the thought flits through my mind, I start to see my breath frosting before my eyes.

  Gaping at it, I look around the box wondering what the fuck is going on.

  I don’t have to wait for long.

  The elevator is about five-by-five feet. Directly opposite me, a man appears.

  Now, I’d think I was going crazy if I wasn’t dating Jayce. Men do not just pop up out of nowhere. Certainly not men wearing feather headdresses, leather chaps, and long braided plaits covering their naked chests. This is not a YMCA reunion, which means the guy has to be Red Bull.

  He’s not bright in color. It’s like Jayce said, the ghosts appear in sepia. I can tell which colors were the brightest in his headdress, but I can’t discern the hue. Not at all.

  It’s weird. After a long time spent wishing I knew what ghosts looked like, now that I know, I really wish I didn’t.

  Talk about ignorance being bliss.

  Fear has the breath stuttering in my chest, but that’s not altogether too bad considering the fact it’s fogging up in front of me, making my face feel clammy.

  Why has he shown himself to me? That he has this power available to him makes my heart quake.

  There are two ways of dealing with this situation. One, I speak with respect. Treat the ghoul delicately. Two, I deal with him in the same dismissive and derogatory manner Jayce does.

  Although, granted, she does that with ordinary ghosts. Not ones like this.

  Ones that can manifest in front of people who can’t normally see them. I can’t be alone in feeling this is a call to war.

  “What do you want, Red Bull?” I demand, deciding to go for a mix between the two options.

  Jayce’s arrogance doesn’t always serve her well, but I can’t imagine this man respecting my fear.

  “I want to know what your wife is doing.”

  “She isn’t my wife.”

  “She’s your wife of the heart.” The chieftain dismisses my words with that astonishing statement.

  Is she? Is Jayce my wife of the heart?

  A tad overwhelmed by that revelation from a ghost, as well as the weird as fuck situation going on five feet away, I gulp. “What would you have me say, Red Bull? You know what’s happening. You know what she’s doing.”

  “Yes. I do. I also know you’re helping.”

  I nod. “I have to help. Francis might have done wrong, might have done your people the gravest wrong imaginable, but he didn’t murder Paula Dietrick. You twisting the situation so he appears to have murdered her isn’t right, Red Bull. Not when you manipulated her husband into acting for you.”

  Red Bull’s face is lined with an age that’s impossible to detect. His eyes are ancient. The skin of his jaw and around his mouth, his forehead, it’s crinkled and creped. He could be fifty or sixty. But his lack of expression is inordinately difficult to get used to.

  Especially when I know something’s going on behind that grim countenance.

  If I’ve learned anything from Jayce, it’s that ghosts think just as they once did. They reason and argue. They analyze.

  Just because he isn’t saying a word, doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking them.

  “When a man commits indecent acts, he cannot expect to be treated decently.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree. But Paula Dietrick didn’t deserve to die for that to happen. You acted indecently, Red Bull. His wrong doesn’t make you right.”

  Tension brackets the ancient’s mouth for the first time. “Paula Dietrick was no innocent herself.”

  “Does that mean she deserved to die?” I wave a hand at my own question. “No need to answer. She’s dead, so you obviously thought her too ‘indecent’ to live. I refuse to believe your Gods would be happy with your doing this. By killing her, you’ve made yourself a party to one of the worst sins imaginable.”

  “You speak of what you cannot understand. The wife of your heart understands more than most, but not enough. Not enough for you to possibly comprehend the many sins that lie at Francis O’Hara’s door.”

  “You managed to manifest before me, and you obviously convinced Dietrick that he could murder his wife and get away with it… Why not use your power to simply make Francis’ life miserable? He committed a terrible offense, one punishable by jail. Destroying ceremonial land, and moving bodies the way he did, he’d rot for that. Have him punished for what he actually did, dammit!”

  “My actions are wholly justifiable.”

  I scowl at his obstinacy. “No. They’re not.”

  “Speak with John DiCesare. Dietrick’s escape came at a price. You speak of sins as though they come with a scale. That man will put your mind at ease. Debts have been paid.”

  “DiCesare… Paula mentioned him. He’s the treasure hunter, isn’t he?”

  A single, stout nod was his reply.

  “How can that do any good? His discovery will affect his pocket. No one else’s. The price I’m talking about doesn’t come with a dollar symbol.”

  “Treasure has many different connotations.”

  “You mean, it isn’t gold down there?” I ask after pondering his words for a few seconds.

  Seconds in which I start to lose sensation in my fingers, because, Jesus, it’s cold.

  He shrugs. “There is some, yes. But there are documents. Documents that may be of interest to your people.”

  A shiver rushes down my spine. Not altogether surprising, considering it’s a degree or two above freezing here, but this is of a different n
ature. It concerns repercussions.

  Repercussions that have my stomach twitching with unease.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The monsters in the Civil War didn’t all wear red.” Red Bull purses his lips.

  “That’s a guarantee. Nobody comes out shining after a war.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It’s time for such a discovery to make itself known.”

  “Why did Paula have to die?”

  “It was the only way for Francis O’Hara to be punished and for the information buried away to come to light.”

  “So, killing Paula was like killing two birds with one stone?”

  Another nod.

  “What could a vapid woman have done to deserve to die for such a truth to come out?”

  “Death comes to us all.”

  His answer has my jaw firming as irritation blinds me for a second. Are all the ghosts this fucking irritating? Poor Jayce if they are.

  “And Dietrick just flies away with his mistress? Gets to live a happily ever after? Where’s the justice in that?”

  Red Bull snorts. The sound is alien coming from someone as dour as him. “You think a male like that is capable of a happily ever after?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. All I know is he murdered someone and should be punished for it.”

  “You whiteskins are so naïve at times.” The chief sighs, the sound heavy. As if he is alive and standing close to me, the breath gusts over to my side of the elevator. It’s fucking freezing too, and I thought I knew what freezing was after this little experience. “A male like that will never find peace. He’s constantly seeking something, but he’ll never find it. It’s not in his nature to be content. You condemn me for manipulating him. I didn’t manipulate him. His intention was always to kill Paula. I just gave him someone to take the fall. His punishment will come.”

  His words don’t stagger me, but I feel the resonance and know he’s not lying. Somehow, the only question that pops to mind is, “Jayce has been told to be scared of you.”

  “By the spy?” Red Bull’s dour stance grows appropriately more stoic. “I have powers that mortals would and should fear. She should not cross me. But if she aligns herself with me, I will not bring her to the attention of others of my kind.”

  Spy? Casper is a spy? I don’t ask that though, instead demand, “How can she do that?”

  “Francis did not kill Paula Dietrick. But he has killed. She must not help release him from jail.”

  “It might be too late for that.”

  It should have been impossible, but the temperature dropped a handful of degrees. “Jesus,” I hiss under my breath.

  “No, Red Bull,” the chieftain corrects gruffly. “You will see to it that she does what she can to keep Francis in jail. She will not appreciate the consequences.”

  He starts to fade out, but quickly, I throw out, “Where did he dump the bones of your people?”

  He stills in place, his form ceasing to quaver, and solidifying instead. “The bones were discovered in LaFlore County. Octavia.”

  “What state is that?”

  “Oklahoma. Choctaw Nation territory. But it’s too late to save the bones. O’Hara had them incinerated. There is no peace for my people now.”

  “Surely the land was more than just federally protected? But recognized by the nation, too?”

  “O’Hara pulled strings. The people who facilitated him will also be punished. Fear not.”

  Jesus, that was all the more reason to feel fear. Red Bull’s idea of retribution isn’t a comfortable one. Certainly not for me, at any rate. And definitely not for Jayce either.

  Rubbing a hand across my jaw, I ask, “So the only way to help is to keep Francis in jail?”

  He bows his head.

  Once.

  “I’ll see what we can do.”

  “You’ll do more than that if you don’t wish the wife of your heart to feel my wrath.”

  And with that, he disappears.

  It was only then that I realize he’d stopped the elevator—subconsciously I knew it but until it rattles to life, I wasn’t aware of his ability to fuck with a mechanized, electric machine. As it started up again with his disappearance, gradually, the temperature warmed up to something more regular than a freezer.

  With a shiver, I rush out of the damn metal box the minute the doors open. Dropping the pizza to the ground, I press my hands to my knees and try to come to terms with what the fuck had just happened.

  Danger… I’ve felt it before. I live in New York City, for Christ’s sake. I’ve felt the point of a knife digging into my throat, been mugged and robbed. Even been beaten up a time or two before I got heavily into Krav Maga. I know what it feels like to fight for my life, but somehow, that was the most terrifying situation I’ve ever found myself in.

  How does Jayce do it?

  Granted, the ghosts she sees aren’t dangerous. They can’t induce men to act for them. But still…

  As the heat floods back into my extremities, the itch is intense. It’s everywhere. All over my body. As I stand, trying not to think of my skin crawling with chilblains, I see Jayce is in the doorway, frowning over at me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. “I figured you were having a moment.”

  “A moment?” I wheeze, then kick over the pizza. It slides against the shiny wooden floor and comes to a halt when it knocks into her foot.

  A thud comes from within. Her brows lift as she bends down. I don’t even really see her tits as they almost escape from her robe, just watch her as she opens the lid and await her reaction.

  She doesn’t disappoint. Her mouth drops open as she gawks at the contents.

  “It’s frozen.” She tilts the box up. “The pieces are shattered. I heard the clatter all the way in the apartment. What the fuck happened?”

  She strides over to me, and as I stagger to my knees, her concern is all the more evident. What choice do I have but to utter the truth?

  “Red Bull.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Drake

  An engraved gold plaque declares to the world at large: John DiCesare– Artifacts & Extracts.

  The plaque is far fancier than the office itself.

  In the heart of Quaker country, I’m not entirely certain how much call there is for artifacts and extracts—an uncertainty exacerbated by the rundown shack of the storefront.

  A grimy window peers out onto the small high street of Selinsgrove, PA. Red brick buildings all around have a more refined air than this office, whose flimsy door quivers as we open up. A bell sounds as we head inside. Dust motes fly everywhere. A shard of sunlight sparkles and pools on a desk loaded with books and more dust. Tomes are piled high, and the man reading them doesn’t even peer up at us as we come to a halt before him. I clear my throat, trying to jerk him to attention. It doesn’t work.

  Jayce takes a more direct route.

  She snaps her fingers a few inches from his face.

  When he jolts to attention, she smiles pleasantly. “We’d like to invest in your dig.”

  John DiCesare is owlish. It’s the only word I can use to describe him. He has bright gold spectacles that are wonky on one side, and a bald head that would do a monk proud. He’s not exactly Nicolas Cage in National Treasure, which, I’ll admit, is kind of disappointing.

  Still, this guy isn’t in it for the money. That’s evident from his place of business as well as the thrall history has over him.

  The walls are lined with books. Stacked high, piled low…every shelf, every surface. They’re there.

  The man’s rabid for history. I can almost taste it in the air.

  “W-Why would you want to do that?”

  “Are you in the habit of turning down money?” I ask.

  “No. But very few people know about my digs.”

  “Well, Francis O’Hara specifically came to us and told us to invest in you.”

  DiCesare’s eyes cloud behind his glasses. “The man’s in jail,
isn’t he?”

  Jayce shrugs. “We went to see him. He’s allowed visitors, you know.”

  “How much are you willing to invest?” DiCesare’s voice has grown a little hoarse at the prospect. His excitement is palpable. The man would make a shit poker player.

  “How much do you need?” Jayce counters, then asks, “Do you have the rights to hold the dig?”

  “Yes. I recently gained permission from the landowner.”

  So, Dietrick’s end of the deal had pulled through.

  “What did the landowner demand in return?”

  “Half the treasure.” DiCesare shrugs. “I’m happy with that. I expected him to ask for more.”

  Which probably meant Dietrick had also greased his friend’s palm to facilitate Red Bull’s plan.

  How was it that a fucking ghost had so many of them dancing to his tune?

  Grimacing, I shoot Jayce a look but she’s focused on DiCesare.

  “I need another three hundred thousand for the equipment.” DiCesare peers at us. “You are aware of what is happening with the dig, aren’t you?”

  “The treasure is buried in a mine shaft that almost collapsed with you in it…” Jayce murmurs softly, but no matter the softness of her tone, DiCesare reacts like she’s barked at him. “You have to approach from above rather than below.”

  The treasure hunter nods but it’s obvious he’s surprised by how much we know—I don’t think his eyebrows can defy gravity for much longer. Not without serious repercussions to his eyes.

  “It’s fortunate the land is just open grassland. The owner has a private forest around his property, and the mine shaft runs underneath it.” He grimaces. “It would be stuck there forever if buildings had been constructed above it.”

  “I don’t want gold,” Jayce replies. “I have reason to believe that there are some important documents within the haul.”

  DiCesare frowns. “I have no such information.”

  She grunts. “If I told you my source, you wouldn’t believe me. And if I’m wrong, what does it matter? I’ll still invest.”

  “But what do you want in return?”

  “Any documents you find, I ask that you scan them or make copies available to me. Aside from that, I expect my original investment to be refunded.”