Justice

by Sara Bell

  "'Fraid so. According to the ER doc at the hospital where Joe—that's my priest buddy—rushed me after I blacked out, I had a mild heart attack. All I knew is that one minute I was standing up in front of the ghost and the next I was lying on the floor, fighting to breathe as my chest was seized with this freezing pressure. And that's not the weirdest part.” With care for his still sore chest, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. “This was burned into my skin when I woke up."

  "Justice.” Maggie read the word out loud twice more before locking eyes with him. “My God."

  "I have no idea what it means, but it hurts like a bitch and the docs are half convinced I did it to myself as some weird form of self mutilation.” He buttoned back up. “That's when I decided to swallow what was left of my pride and beg Marc to help me.” He rubbed his hand over the brand across his heart. “Think he will?"

  "Maggie can't answer that, but I can.” Marc stepped from the shadows of the foyer where he'd been standing behind the doorframe, just out of Dean's line of sight. He looked to his sister. “Might as well cut the tape off, Magpie. I heard it all."

  Dean grimaced. “All of it."

  Marc nodded. His beautiful face—the face Dean had dreamed about every night for the past eight years—softened into something like tenderness. “I didn't know about your mother. Not how she died, I mean."

  "Doesn't matter.” Dean stood up, suddenly unable to sit still. “It was a long time ago."

  "It does matter.” Marc took a step toward him. “If I'd known why you reacted the way you did when I told you my secret—"

  "You'd have done what? Taken me back when I called you a year later, begging for the forgiveness even I knew I didn't deserve?” Dean turned away from them both, praying he wasn't going to disgrace himself by crying like a two-year-old. Without looking back, he said, “So what do you think? Am I beyond hope?"

  He felt Marc come up behind him. “No. There's hope yet.” His voice fell an octave. “A hell of a lot of hope."

  Dean's fingers knotted, every fiber in his being screaming for Marc to be talking about more than just the ghost. A second later, the moment was gone, and Marc became the consummate professional.

  "First we need to get you out of the house. That word on your chest...” Marc stumbled over the sentence and started again as Dean turned around to face him. “That word tells me the ghost has marked you. You're her target, and we have to find out why, but not tonight. Tomorrow, after we've rested and formed a plan of attack.” He moved toward the door just as Brian came in with Will and a guy Dean didn't recognize.

  Dean remembered how Will had ripped him a new one a few days after he and Marc broke up. Cautiously, he said, “Nice to see you again, Will."

  To his surprise, Will crossed the room and clapped him on the back. “You can cut the polite shit. The kid and I were standing at the door behind Marc, listening in.” He looked Dean in the eye. “I think I'm starting to understand a hell of a lot better than I did eight years ago.” He motioned to the guy Dean didn't know. “Dean Ryder, meet Alex Hauser, the new medium on our crew."

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “So much for the usual protocol.” She shut off the recorder. “As I'm sure you heard, Alex, Dean is an old friend of ours. Since this case is more personal than most, we may need you to step in and help balance Marc on the investigation."

  The kid, who was nice looking in a fresh-faced, untried kind of way, regarded Dean with an expression of open hostility. “What for? This guy dropped Marc when Marc needed him the most. I say we let this ghost bitch finish him off.” And with that he stomped out, his footsteps a loud echo in the nearly empty mansion.

  Dean didn't have to ask. He recognized a warning when he saw it. The kid clearly thought of Marc as his personal property and had just pissed a line in the sand between them. Jealousy Dean had no right to feel burned low in his gut. With no way to cover the awkward moment, he said, “Well at least we know how he really feels. No holding back with that one."

  "Forget about Alex for now,” Marc said. “He'll cool off. In the meantime, is there a hotel close by, somewhere we can hole up ‘til tomorrow?"

  "The closest one in is Athens, but Brian and I both live not far from here. I have a little place about two miles up the road and Brian's house is three doors down from mine.” Dean cocked his head to the side. “Brian has two extra bedrooms, but I only have one so we'll have to split up and decide who's going home with who."

  "No brainer,” Marc said. “Maggie and Will share a room, so they can take one of Brian's spares and Alex can use the other. That leaves me to go home with you.” His tone took on an edge. “You and I have some things we need to get straight before we can cleanse this house."

  Dean swallowed. He wasn't sure whether to take Marc's statement as a threat or a promise.

  * * * *

  Dean's place was nice. It reminded Marc of an up-market version of the townhouse they'd shared in college. Chunky, craftsman-style furniture filled large, open rooms decorated in dark, masculine colors. Best of all, the place had floor to ceiling windows in every room. It was too dark to tell, but he imagined the house was flooded with light during the daytime.

  Dean led him first to the guestroom to stow his gear, then gave him a brief tour. In spite of himself, Marc was impressed.

  "Nice. Much classier than the apartment above my office.” He smiled. “Maybe I should hire you to come decorate my place."

  Dean's work-tanned cheeks colored, but he brushed the compliment aside. “I'm sure your place is just fine. You always did have good taste."

  "Still, you've done well for yourself,” Marc said as he took a seat on the living room sofa. “You and Brian, partners in your own construction company."

  "We had some help.” Dean came in from the adjoining kitchen carrying two glasses of iced tea. He handed one to Marc, then took a seat in the easy chair closest to the end of sofa where Marc was sitting. “Dad left us each some money when he passed away. He and Brian's mom divorced when Brian was just a baby, so the two of us got it all. We were able to invest it and pour the dividends back into the company.” He took a sip from his glass. “You haven't done so badly yourself."

  Marc gave him a questioning look, and Dean shrugged. “I watch the news, read the papers. You've earned the supernatural a credible following."

  "There are still plenty of doubters out there.” Marc heard the bitterness in his own voice and winced. “Sorry. I wasn't talking about you."

  "It's okay. I've earned your distrust.” Dean set his glass on the coffee table. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry.” He made a dry, raspy sigh deep in the back of his throat. “Now that it's too late, it's amazing how clearly I see what a total ass I was."

  Marc drew circles around the rim of his tea glass with one finger. “Like I said, if I'd known about your mom ... I might've been more willing to listen when you tried to talk to me after it all went down."

  "And like I said ... it's too late to go back."

  "Maybe...” Marc took a drink to wet his suddenly parched throat. “Maybe we could go forward."

  Dean looked at him with naked hope. “What are you saying?"

  "Not that we pick up where we left off,” Marc hurried to say. “Too much time has passed between us for that.” He crossed his legs and then uncrossed them again. “You and me ... we were friends before we became lovers. Maybe we can be again."

  "Friends?” Dean sounded like he wasn't sure he believed the offer.

  "If you're willing."

  Dean surprised him with a smile. “At this point, I'm so weak and pathetic I'll take anything you're offering and be damned grateful for it."

  Marc looked at Dean—all lean, work-hewn muscle and sassy good ol’ boy charm—and laughed. “Somehow, I don't think anyone would accuse you of being pathetic.” He sobered. “Friends tell each other things. There's something you need to know."

  Dean leaned forward in his chair. “I'm listening."

  Marc told him in vivid detail about the j
ustice card he'd been finding for four days straight, and about Maggie's interpretation of what it could mean.

  A minute passed in silence as Dean absorbed the information. Finally, he said, “And you think it's somehow related to the word on my chest."

  "I'd be a fool not to."

  Dean nodded. “The question is, what's the connection, and how do we figure it out without getting one or both of us killed?"

  "It's possible the spirit wasn't trying to hurt you or your men.” Marc spared a glance at Dean's chest, a chill spreading through him at the thought of what almost happened. “It sounds cliché, but sometimes they don't know their own strength. She may have used a little too much juice in a bid to get your attention."

  "If that was her intention, she sure as hell got it. And it still doesn't explain the brand she burned into my skin.” Dean scrubbed a hand over the three-day-beard covering his chin. “Have you ever seen anything like this?"

  "No, but I'm still learning. There's a hell of a lot out there I don't know jack about.” He set his glass on the table near Dean's. “I promise you, I'm going to do everything in my power to keep her from hurting you again."

  "You should know...” Dean hesitated, his eyes intense on Marc's face. “I didn't want to call you in on this. Didn't want you to risk yourself. Not for me.” He got up, pacing a short trek back and forth in front of the windows on the far wall.

  "What changed your mind?"

  "Brian.” Dean stopped pacing long enough to look at him. “He said you were a pro, and I should have enough faith in you to know you could handle yourself against this thing."

  "He's right.” Marc rose from the sofa and closed distance between them. “I won't let anything happen to either of us, Dean.” He took a step closer—so near now he could feel Dean's warm, sweet breath on his face. “On that, you have my word.

  Dean's tongue did a nervous dart to the corner of his mouth, and it was then that Marc remembered what a kick-ass kisser Dean had always been. Kissing Dean was almost as good as getting head from someone else. Just when Marc was daring himself to see whether Dean's kisses were as good as he remembered them being, Dean all but leapt away from him, and the moment was broken.

  "We should get some sleep,” Dean said in a scratchy voice. “You know where the master bedroom is. Holler if you need me."

  Marc watched him go, unable and unwilling to say anything that might make him stay. He'd tried over the years to convince himself he was over Dean, had seen the string of men he'd taken to his bed as proof their connection was broken. Marc shook his head and made his way to the guestroom. Maybe he wasn't as good a liar as he'd thought.

  * * * *

  It was the whimpering that woke him. Dean came awake by degrees, his foggy brain taking a minute to recognize the sound for what it was. The minute he realized what he was hearing, he got out of bed and made straight for the liquor cabinet.

  Five minutes later, he was standing at Marc's door, glass in hand. He gave it tentative knock.

  "Come in."

  The lamps on either side of the bed were already on. Marc was standing at the window, curtains drawn back so he could stare out at the inky darkness. He turned when Dean walked in, smiling when he saw the glass in Dean's hand. Dean passed it to him without a word, then took the place next to him at the window.

  Marc lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed it and smiled. “Jack and Coke. You remembered."

  "It's one of only two things that could relax you after a nightmare.” He spared a glance for the mangled covers heaped on the guest bed. “Must've been a bad one."

  "Yeah.” Marc took a long draw of soda and whisky, ice tinkling as he swished it around. “First one I've had in a while.” Another sip, and then he looked at Dean. “Thank you. This is what I needed."

  Marc was dressed the same way as Dean: a pair of boxers and nothing else. He did his best to meet Marc's eyes and not stare at the lean, hard muscles of his stomach or the furred trail leading into his shorts. He swallowed at the thought of what lay beneath the silky fabric.

  "You used to have the dreams at least once a week. Never would tell me what they were about.” He hesitated. “Am I right to assume they have something to do with your psychic abilities?"

  "Sort of.” Marc killed the rest of the drink, then set the glass on the night stand and perched himself on the edge of the bed. “You sure you want to know?"

  "I'm a true believer, Angel Eyes.” The old endearment slipped out before Dean could stop it, but Marc didn't say anything so Dean decided to pretend like he hadn't said it. He scratched his still-healing chest, the word burned there itching like crazy. “Nothing you can tell me would shock me at this point.” He pushed the mound of covers out of the way and sat down beside Marc. “I wasn't willing to hear it eight years ago.” With extreme caution, he reached for Marc's hand. “I'm listening now."

  There was no hesitation as Marc squeezed his fingers tight. “I was five years old when I realized my imaginary friends weren't so imaginary."

  "Ghosts."

  Marc nodded. “My folks thought I was nuts. Took me to shrink after shrink ... even had me put on medication for a while."

  Dean stroked his finger up and down the pad of Marc's thumb. “Must've been hell for you."

  "Yeah. The drugs made me loopy as all get out, but the spirits kept coming.” He sighed. “I was just a little kid, too stupid to keep my mouth shut about what I was seeing. Mom and Dad finally took me to see one last doctor, a guy in upstate New York, Dr. Minshaw."

  "I take it this guy was different from the others."

  Marc nodded. “Minshaw was—is—a licensed psychiatrist, but he also has a degree in parapsychology. He recognized my talent for what it was, yanked me off the drugs, and started working with me, teaching me to get a handle on it. Didn't even charge my folks for his services."

  Dean smiled. “Sounds like a nice guy."

  "He is. I still keep in touch with him, as a matter of fact.” Marc let go of Dean's hand long enough to push his thick mop of reddish-brown hair off his forehead. “Unfortunately, my parents didn't want me to hone my gift.” He reclaimed Dean's hand, his grip harder than before. His gray eyes were shadowed. “They just wanted it gone, wanted a normal son who didn't embarrass them in front of their friends by making contact with dead relatives at dinner parties."

  "I'm sorry, Marc."

  "So are they, now, but by the time they wised up, the damage was already done."

  Goose-bumps rose along Dean's skin. “What kind of damage are we talking about?"

  "My folks decided Dr. Minshaw was the wrong person to help them banish this ‘thing’ I had.” He shook his head, gave a humorless laugh. “That's what they called it. A thing."

  Shame washed through Dean, thick and bitter-tasting. “And that's what I said to you the night you told me your secret."

  "You didn't know,” Marc said without a trace of censure. “And neither did they, unfortunately. They believed the best way to find someone who could banish the ghosts once and for all was to seek out a practitioner with powers similar to mine. Thus began a parade of dragging me from one psychic to another."

  Dean tilted his head to the side. “I thought real psychic abilities were rare."

  "They are, but my parents didn't know that. Most of the people they took me to were carnie hucksters who flashed their tarot cards, waved their hands over their crystal balls, and pronounced me cured.” A fine tremor shook him, and a sheen of perspiration dotted his upper lip. “Then they stumbled on a medium named Oscar Tallmadge."

  "Another fake?"

  "No, he was real,” Marc said. “A real psychic, and a real bastard.” He drew a shaky breath. “Oscar was at one time a talented medium, but he used his talent strictly for personal gain."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Most of the spirits who seek us out do so because they have unfinished business here in this plane. Some have hidden money they want returned to their relatives: others have secrets they need to s
hare. Oscar used the information they gave him to either find the money himself, or to blackmail the spirit's family by promising to keep quiet about what he knew in exchange for payment. At the very least he used what he knew to keep the dearly departed's family paying him so they could continue communicating with their lost loved one."

  "Jesus.” Dean whistled. “Bastard is right."

  "It gets worse. Because of Oscar's misdeeds, his own gift was starting to die.” Marc shifted a little bit closer to Dean, as if he were seeking comfort. “The spirits no longer trusted him and that was severely cutting into his ability to milk their families."

  "Let me guess: he saw you as a way to reestablish contact."

  "Yeah."

  Dean wrapped one arm around Marc's shoulders and pulled him close. To Dean's relief, Marc didn't protest, just melted against Dean the way he always used to after a nightmare. Dean closed his eyes against the top of Marc's head, enjoying the clean, fresh scent of the man for a full minute before pulling back to look at him.

  "Is that what the dreams are about? Oscar and the way he used you?"

  "Some of them.” Marc leaned against him again. “You have to understand, Dean ... not all the spirits out there are human."

  Dean went cold. “Are you talking about demons?"

  "That and more.” Marc burrowed his head against Dean's chest, his skin chilled. “Oscar didn't understand what he was dealing with, and all that negative karma he'd racked up attracted dark, evil things who saw an innocent young boy as fair game.” He breathed in an out in a deliberate rhythm, like he was trying to force calm on himself. “I was too strong even then to let them take hold of me, but they damn near tore me apart trying before Mom and Dad realized the mistake they'd made and took me back to Dr. Minshaw. Thank God he had a medium friend who was able to banish the darkness.” He sat up but stayed close to Dean's side. “Now you know why I wake up screaming sometimes.” He croaked out a dry laugh. “Memories can be a bitch.” He smiled. “Thanks for the drink. It helped."

  Dean looked at him, the pallor of his face and the ever present trembling of his hands. He took a gamble then, desperate to erase the pain creasing Marc's brow.