by Morgan Brice
When the rotting timbers and the Wilton Stone plunged to the abyss, Beecher’s ghost fell silent.
The nightmare was over.
Thank you, cousin. Dante’s voice sounded weary in Simon’s mind, but proud of what they had accomplished.
Will you go away, too? There was so much Simon wanted to ask Dante, and there’d been no time for conversation.
I’m strongest in the storm, Dante replied. Call me when you need me, and if it’s in my power to do so, I will come. Fare thee well.
Dante’s presence vanished, leaving Simon himself once more. He felt like he’d been turned inside out and bled dry from the power Dante had channeled through him and the energy he had expended. Bone weary, soaked to the skin and freezing cold, Simon couldn’t stay upright. He thought he heard Vic’s voice in the distance, and that was the final thing he needed to let go and surrender to the exhaustion.
Vic will make sure everything’s all right. He’s here. I’m safe.
16
VIC
Vic and Ross burst into the parlor at Socastee Manor with Coast Guard Captain Bret Timmons on their heels and came to a screeching halt. Vic wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the scene in front of him wasn’t it.
Jonah Camden lay bound with duct tape, apparently unconscious. Everyone else stood near the French doors, which had been thrown open like this was a balmy summer night. Vic spotted Trevor Nichols and Josh Williams, bloody and battered, standing in the wind and rain, hands clasped in a circle with Miss Eppie and Gabriella—and Simon.
Good God, is that a knife sticking out of his leg?
Vic took a step toward them, but Ross grabbed his arm. “Don’t. Whatever’s happening, let it be.” Everything inside Vic wanted to go to Simon and protect him. It took all of his self-control to stay back.
“What the hell is going on?” Timmons knelt next to Camden, taking his pulse to assure that the developer was still alive.
“I don’t honestly know,” Vic replied, torn between awe and terror. Lightning lit up the sky, streaking from the clouds to the sea. Simon was soaked, face raised to the wind, head back, long hair sodden and dripping. And just like last time, Vic knew on a primal level that the man who channeled the storm wasn’t only Simon, He was something else, someone else, too.
Damned if Vic knew if he could ever quite get used to that, seeing his lover’s body taken for a joyride by a visiting ghost. But he would, he’d manage, because this was Simon and Vic’s love for him was as fierce as the storm.
A bolt of lightning illuminated the balcony, and the thunder boomed so loudly that Vic felt certain it struck somewhere between the manor and the beach. The tang of ozone hung in the air. Simon’s whole body stiffened, and the same tension seemed to run through the circle of those who’d joined hands. Vic could practically feel the hum of the energy, and he knew in his gut that this was a showdown between Simon and the Annabelle’s ghostly murderer, a battle that Vic had to sit out on the sidelines.
“Fuck that,” he muttered, striding up to the circle with Ross close on his heels. Vic put one hand on Trevor’s shoulder and the other on Josh’s. Ross followed his example even if he didn’t fully understand, doing the same with Josh and Gabriella. If Vic could lend anything to the fight without breaking the circle, he promised Simon silently that he would give it his all.
Vic thought about the woven bracelet and the pocket square with their magic, and the silver St. George medallion around his neck, willing all their protections toward Simon. Maybe it was his imagination, but Vic could have sworn that he felt a tug on his energy, and he didn’t resist. He’d give Simon his blood if he needed it; maybe this was not so different. So Vic hung on, chanting the Hail Mary in his mind, hoping the cost of victory would not be more than he was willing to pay.
Simon gave a guttural cry. The wind battered the porch and snapped a tree with a crack like gunfire. All of a sudden the tension vanished, and the wind died. Simon dropped like a rock.
“Simon!” Vic plowed past everyone to reach Simon’s side. The third stolen knife from the museum was buried deep in Simon’s leg, which made Vic’s stomach twist. Simon wasn’t responding, and his skin was ice cold. Vic grabbed him under the arms and dragged him inside. Ross and Trevor shut the doors, although the rain had soaked the floor several feet into the room.
“We need to get him warm and stabilize the knife until we can get him to the hospital,” Vic snapped. He looked to Trevor. “Supplies?”
Trevor disappeared and returned in a few moments carrying an armful of canvas painter’s drop cloths. “We can wrap him in these. They’re the closest thing to blankets I’ve got.” He also held out a field med-kit. “There’s gauze and an Ace bandage, plus tape.”
Bret was on his portable radio, calling the Coast Guard for help. Josh Williams sat on an upturned utility bucket while Miss Eppie dabbed at a gash on his shoulder. A bloody line on Williams’s throat gave Vic an idea that whatever had happened here had been intense. The whole house stank of fresh smoke, and Vic saw tendrils still rising from a metal bucket.
Gabriella knelt on Simon’s other side and laid a hand on his forehead.
“Is he going to be okay?” Vic felt his heart in his throat.
“Dunwood’s ghost is gone, and so is Beecher’s spirit,” she told him. “I can’t heal his wound like it never happened, but I can use my magic to staunch the bleeding and keep him stable until help arrives.”
“Thank you,” Vic said in a ragged voice.
Josh joined them next, and Gabriella moved out of the way. He looked like he’d gone a couple of rounds with a boxer. “Let me have a look at that blade,” he said. “I was a medic in the Navy.”
Vic sat back on his haunches as Josh examined the wound without disturbing the knife. “He’s lost blood, and we don’t want to remove the knife until he gets to the hospital because it’s sealing the wound. As best as I can tell, the blade didn’t hit anything vital. It’s going to need a hell of a lot of stitches, but it’s fixable. Hitting an artery would have been a whole ‘nother story.”
Vic and Gabriella wrapped Simon in the drop cloths, careful not to jostle the knife. Vic had gotten stabbed more than once in the line of duty, and he knew it would hurt like hell when Simon woke up. He held Simon’s hand, trying to share his body heat, willing Simon to know, somehow, that he was close by.
“How did you get here?” Trevor asked. “The road is a mess. I came out because I’d told Josh I’d let him in to look for some old book. I was also worried that we’d both get stranded if the road flooded—which it did. My truck barely made it in.”
“Thank the Coast Guard. We came by boat.”
“In the middle of the storm?”
Vic nodded. “Yeah. Not a fun ride.”
Bret wandered over. “The storm’s dying down. They should be able to have an extra boat out to pick us all up in about an hour, since we can’t all fit in the skiff. And I don’t want to chance a return trip in that little boat with Simon injured if we don’t have to. They’ll have an ambulance standing by at the dock. We’ll make sure Simon’s in good hands.”
Ross had been pacing near the French doors, trying to get a signal. He finally gave up with a disgusted expression. “I promised Cap I’d let him know that we got here, but I can’t get any bars.”
“I asked my commander to radio Captain Hargrove and relay my report,” Bret said. “He and Hargrove go way back.”
The next hour passed slowly. Ross and Vic took statements from Miss Eppie, Gabriella, Trevor, and Josh. Camden remained unconscious, and—more to Vic’s concern—so did Simon.
“Why isn’t he waking up?” Vic fretted. Simon’s pulse was steady, but he was pale and colder than usual.
“He’s been through a lot,” Gabriella replied. “Shock, exhaustion, and blood loss. He put on one hell of a show.”
Simon and his friends had managed to shut down two murderous ghosts. Vic was proud of Simon’s bravery and cleverness, but right now all he cared abou
t was that Simon was too cold, too quiet, too still.
Please be okay. I can’t lose you.
Vic felt certain that the statements the others provided were edited somewhat, especially since none of them were sure where Bret stood on the supernatural issue. Vic promised himself he’d eventually get the full story. When Bret came over to check on them, Vic figured he might as well find out.
“So…about what happened here,” Vic began.
Bret raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need to know,” he replied. “Although, since you partner up with a psychic medium on cases, I’d wager there was more going on that meets the eye.” He shrugged. “We’ve got Camden on the hook for two killings and witnesses for his confession. Since one of those is the diver’s murder, my boss will be happy. As for the rest? What I don’t know, I don’t have to do paperwork on.” He slapped Vic on the shoulder and headed over to talk to Josh.
Over in the other corner, Vic could hear Trevor talking with Miss Eppie and Gabriella about how to cleanse Socastee Manor of the psychic stain from Jamie Dunwood’s ghost and the general unpleasantness of the Dunwood descendants. Miss Eppie and Gabriella appeared to agree to something, then moved farther into the house carrying flashlights. Trevor noticed Vic watching, and came over.
“There isn’t time for a full cleansing now, but they said they’d do what they could, and I promised to pay them if they’d come back and finish it after the storm.” Trevor pushed his wet hair off his face. “Damn, it’ll be a wonderful thing not to have that ghost fucking with us, after all that lost time and worry.”
“What about Camden? He’s going to have a date with the police. Will that hurt the project?” Vic didn’t care much about the house itself, but he respected Trevor’s efforts to keep his crew safe.
“Not really. The investment company will assign someone else to the account. Camden never really did as much as he thought he did. I won’t miss him. And I’m glad he didn’t kill Simon or Josh.”
Vic knew he’d never get the real story of what happened until Simon woke up, or Miss Eppie and Gabriella had a chance to fill him in without the chance of being overheard. Obviously, Simon had figured out that his initial mistrust of Josh was wrong, since Camden lay trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But what had happened out on the porch, and why was Simon so badly drained? Vic tightened his grip on Simon’s hand and hoped he’d be able to get the answers from Simon himself before long.
When the boat finally arrived, Vic carried Simon down to the dock and refused to let go until they landed and an ambulance crew stood ready to take Simon to the hospital.
“Go with him,” Ross said. “I’ll talk to Hargrove. Keep me posted.”
Vic flashed his badge at the ambulance crew, unwilling to be separated from Simon. He was grateful that Camden had a different ambulance. Vic never wanted to see that slimy developer again, unless it was in a courtroom to receive a guilty verdict.
Vic moved out of the team’s way as the EMTs started Simon’s blood transfusion, and began treating him for shock and exposure. Simon looked so vulnerable, lying pale and still on the gurney, and Vic hated how helpless he felt, unable to do anything except keep Simon company and hope for the best.
Tracey was waiting for them at the hospital. She had Simon’s Power of Attorney, something that Vic decided he and Simon might want to discuss at some point. Right now, Vic was just glad that he didn’t have to deal with Simon’s parents.
“So, here we are again,” Tracey said as she and Vic settled in at the waiting room with their cafeteria coffee. Months ago, on Simon and Vic’s first case together, a bullet had put Simon in the operating room. Now, while the doctor assured them that the knife wound wasn’t life-threatening, Vic felt somehow guilty for not having prevented it.
“Yeah. At least we know not to get coffee out of the vending machine.” Vic’s weak joke fell flat. He wondered if Tracey blamed him for Simon’s injury. After all, before Vic and Simon teamed up, no one had been trying to kill Simon.
“Stop that.”
Vic looked up, perplexed. Tracey sighed and shook her head. “You’re thinking so loudly, I can practically hear you, and I’m not telepathic. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. You didn’t put him in danger.”
Vic ran a hand back through his hair. “I kinda did, when I came to him about the Slitter on that first case. If I hadn’t asked him to do that reading, he’d still be safe, giving ghost tours.”
“Huh. That shows what you know.” Tracey got a look in her eye that reminded Vic of his mother’s expression when she was about to lay down the law. “First, there’s nothing to say that the ghosts he was already talking to wouldn’t have dragged him into solving crimes. He wouldn’t have turned them down, but he’d have been on his own, with no backup.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Do I look like I’m done talking?”
Vic shook his head and fell silent.
“If you hadn’t gone to his shop, the two of you might have never gotten together. I knew Simon before, and I see him now, and y’all are good for each other. That boy was lonely and didn’t know it before he met you.”
Vic nodded. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to him. God, Tracey, when I got him off that porch, he was barely breathing, and he was so cold and pale.”
“And one of these days, odds are it’s going to be Simon sitting here losing his mind, and you under the knife. But unless you toss in your crime-fighting capes and go do something altogether different—like run an antique store like Simon’s cousin—I don’t think you’re going to get away from danger. It goes with the job. And you go with Simon. Period.”
Vic rubbed his eyes. The coffee soured in his stomach, and his head throbbed, reminding him it had been too long since he’d eaten. “I know. You’re right. I’m not going anywhere. He’s it for me. But sometimes that makes it harder, having something to lose.”
“You sound like my girl, Shayna,” Tracey said. “Always worrying about what’s coming down the road. She was in the Army, you know that? So she’s got a longer list than most people of horrible things that could happen. And maybe they will. But I keep telling her they haven’t happened yet, so we might as well enjoy what we’ve got while we’ve got it.” She smiled. “So listen up, huh.”
Vic managed a weak smile in return. “And you sound like my nonna.”
Tracey frowned. “Isn’t she the one with the evil eye?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Think I could learn that? I’m good at giving the stink eye. I’ve never tried the evil eye.”
“Pretty sure it’s something you’re born with.”
“Huh. Don’t go crashing my dreams like that. A person’s gotta have goals.”
Vic appreciated what Tracey was trying to do, and she looked slyly triumphant when she managed to make him smile. He was grateful for Tracey in the same way he was thankful for a partner like Ross. Good friends were hard to come by.
They both looked up as a figure approached, and Vic recognized Simon’s surgeon.
“Ms. Cullen? Lieutenant D’Amato?” Tracey and Vic nodded, anxious for news.
“Simon’s injury caused blood loss but didn’t do any permanent damage. He came through just fine, although with a deep wound like that, it took us a while to stitch him up. He’s on pain medication, and as soon as we move him to his room, you can see him.”
“Was he awake at all before you took him in?” Vic pressed.
The surgeon frowned. “No. That’s why we required Ms. Cullen to give informed consent. I was given the understanding he’d been attacked?”
It was as good an explanation as any, and not wholly untrue. “Yeah,” Vic said. “He stopped a mugging.” Camden’s attack on Josh counted.
“We gave him a transfusion, and we have him on an IV to keep him from being dehydrated. The scans don’t show any brain damage, but we’re concerned because we don’t know why he hasn’t woken up. We’ll keep him under observation until we’re certain he’ll
be all right.”
“Thank you.” Vic felt every minute of his own long hours, first helping with the storm and then sitting vigil. He and Tracey watched the surgeon as he headed down the hallway.
“Go get something to eat,” Tracey urged. “You look like you’re running on empty. The last thing we need is having you swoon and crack your head.”
“Cops don’t swoon.”
“All right, tough guy. But Shayna’s brother, the Marine, gave himself a concussion when he didn’t eat and passed out. I’m just sayin’.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll go get food. You want me to bring something back for you?”
She shook her head. “I’m good. I was safe and dry at home all day, so I ate dinner a while ago. By the time you get back, they’ll probably have Simon in a room.”
Vic knew anything he ate would sit like lead in his belly, but Tracey wasn’t entirely wrong. His headache was likely a combination of stress, the storm, and not having eaten anything since breakfast. Vic managed to choke down a burger in the cafeteria, then hurried back with fresh coffees for both of them.
“Good timing,” Tracey said. “They’ve got him moved in.”
Vic thought he was prepared, after the last time, to see Simon in a hospital bed, but it was a sucker punch to the gut even so. It had been so much worse before, touch and go, with far more tubes and wires keeping Simon alive until his body could heal from the bullet wound. Now, a single IV line ran into the back of his left hand, while a few monitor leads fed a bank of screens that showed all his vitals. Still, everything about the room brought back bad memories; the smell of the disinfectant, the beep of the machines, the way Simon looked almost fragile against the stark white sheets.
“I told the nurse that you were his partner and you’d want to stay the night,” Tracey said. “I may have also dropped in that you’re a cop.”