“Maybe eleven, eleven thirty.”
“It’s too soon. It shouldn’t start until midnight.”
“Maybe the presence of a Balch and a Stump activated it. I don’t know. We were always just guessing.” Riley’s voice vibrated with tension. “God, Logan, anything could happen.”
Logan glanced down at Danford, still huddled at his feet. But as the sullen yellow light crept along the ground, picking up speed, bisecting the clearing, Logan realized Danford wasn’t his biggest problem.
Fear washed through his gut like ice mixed with fire. Anything could happen. He wasn’t the only one at risk: Riley, Julie, the crew . . . He wouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even Max Stone.
The cameramen and support crew were still safely outside the ghost war perimeter, along with Scott, but Julie and Max were on the inside, only a couple of yards from Riley.
“Run, you idiots!” Logan shouted, grabbing Riley’s arm and hauling ass toward the diminishing gap.
Max didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted, losing his stupid hat in his rush. Julie remained frozen in place, clipboard clutched to her chest in gloved hands as if it could protect her.
“Riley?” she whispered. “It’s real, isn’t it?”
Riley pulled out of Logan’s grip, his breath erratic. “Why is everyone so surprised? I told you it was real. I showed you the evidence. Just because every other episode was bogus . . .” he gulped air “. . . only means you weren’t looking in the right places.”
Logan snatched Julie’s sleeve and made a grab for Riley, who evaded him. “The two of you can debate later. But now, you need to get the fuck out of here before the barrier closes.” He managed to get Julie’s feet moving, but she kept slowing down, staring at Cuthbert, at Danford. “Come on, Julie. You heard what Riley said. All bets are off.”
She dug her heels into the spongy ground. “Are you kidding? A real, honest-to-god manifestation could make this stupid job worthwhile. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Fuck this.” Logan picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, her clipboard falling to the ground with a muffled thump. “Come on, Riley.”
He sprinted for the knot of wide-eyed crew members as fast as he could while carrying a buck fifty of pissed-off woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glowing snake of the barrier approaching from the woods on his left now too, cutting straight through one of the walls of the Witch’s Castle, accelerating, reducing the safety margin by the second.
He skidded on the muddy path and staggered outside the danger zone, into the tangle of equipment and cable, and set the furious Julie on her feet between two burly grips.
“Hold her.”
Amazingly, they obeyed. Score one for tattoo bodyguard guy.
She struggled in their grasp. “Logan Conner, you suck, you—you dick-spawned shit-bucket!”
“Save the compliments for later.” He heaved a relieved sigh and turned, searching the crowd for Riley. Julie’s gasp, hand covering her mouth, clued him in. He spun around.
In the center of the now nearly complete barrier, Cuthbert held Riley with one arm twisted behind his back. The greenish light glinted on the knife in Bert’s other hand, at the angle of Riley’s jaw.
“Bert. No!”
Bert bared his teeth and brandished the knife. “Never could see what was right in front of your nose, boy.”
Riley didn’t struggle—smart man—but he probably didn’t have much choice. Logan knew from watching Bert heave cases of liquor around that his stringy body held muscles out of proportion to a man his age.
His age. Christ. Logan had known Bert since childhood, so he knew the guy was old, but this old? Nobody over a hundred and fifty should be in that good of shape. Danford sure wasn’t. Hell, nobody over a hundred and fifty should even be alive—or passing for living. Who knew what tricks Cuthbert had up his undead sleeve? Logan didn’t intend to leave Riley to face them alone.
He raced back toward the rapidly closing gap, pushing Scott out of his way, and in a final burst of speed, leaped into the circle. His knee buckled, and he went down just as a curtain of eldritch fire sprang up, enclosing them inside the war zone.
Riley cursed all the time he’d spent in the library instead of the gym. If he’d worked out more, he’d stand half a chance of escaping the SOB who had him as helpless as if he were a goddamned ventriloquist’s dummy. Why had he ever imagined he could control this situation when he couldn’t even keep himself out of trouble?
Green mist boiled out of the barrier, separating into roughly person-sized globs, but no recognizable figures.
Scott’s voice carried through the ringing in Riley’s ears. “Shit. The readings are off the charts. This is the biggest manifestation we’ve ever seen.”
It’s the only one you’ve ever seen.
Bert’s rusty chuckle sent gooseflesh creeping up Riley’s back. “Let’s give ’em something better to look at, eh, boy?”
He jerked Riley’s arm up, his bony fingers less yielding than handcuffs, and slashed the base of Riley’s palm. Fire shot from Riley’s hand to his shoulder, and he caught a scream behind his teeth as his blood pattered to the ground—and a whole half-transparent cast faded into focus: figures in midcentury garb complete with horses, wagons, firearms.
Despite the pain, and his proximity to a madman, Riley’s folklore-centric brain registered the data. I was correct. It’s a ritual and blood is the trigger. I prepared for the right thing. No matter what happened to him now, he had faith that the protections he’d woven around the site with his ridiculous censer and pine broom, around Logan with the charm bag, would at least shield the people he loved.
He heard a cry from Julie, and Scott ordering Zack to get this on film. On the bank of the creek, Balch whimpered, his gaze locked on the specter of a girl with her hand tucked in the elbow of a strapping young man.
Bert shoved Riley in the back, and he stumbled forward, his throbbing hand clutched to his chest, and fell to his knees on the muddy ground. He scrambled up, regardless of the pain in hand and knees, and staggered to Logan’s side.
He held out his uninjured hand, and Logan took it to lever himself up, wincing when he put weight on his left leg.
He grasped Riley’s wrist, angling his hand until the gash gleamed in the barrier’s glow. “Christ. I never thought he’d hurt you.”
“Still think leaving him loose is a good idea?”
“No. But it can’t change my mind.”
“Logan.” Riley kept his voice low, but infused all the urgency into it that he could. “We may never get this chance again. The blood on the ground. Balch and Stump both inside the barrier. You and I, two people who know what’s going on and have the will to stop it.”
Logan cupped the back of Riley’s head with one hand, his fingers threading through Riley’s hair. “Babe, the stuff you figured out . . . it’s amazing, but you said it before. We’re just guessing. We know for sure that a player can get displaced, but only in this time window. I can’t take the risk on untried hoodoo.”
“Once this episode airs, how many other people do you think will try this? Sacrificing yourself might not even save Trent. We have the chance to save everyone.”
“Then you do it. You tell them to stay the fuck away from this place.” He jerked his chin at a spot beyond Riley’s shoulder and turned him gently in that direction. “Show them the evidence—you’ve got it all on film.”
“Don’t do it, Logan. Please.” Riley clutched the lapels of Logan’s jacket, smearing blood on the leather. “For once in your life, don’t be the fweaking hewo.”
A smile tugged at Logan’s mouth, and he ran his thumb over Riley’s lower lip, just as he’d done in that long ago picture. “I ever tell you how much I love the way you talk?”
Riley half sobbed and plastered himself against Logan’s chest. Logan’s arms closed around him, and from their circle, he watched the sad little scene play out on the bank of the creek, with Bert observing from atop a stump at
the edge of the clearing. Danford had retreated to huddle against the mossy stones of the only Witch’s Castle wall inside the barrier, his hands over his head.
The answer rang inside Riley’s head like a brass gong. Danford. If Cuthbert wanted vengeance, the only way for him to truly get it was if Danford was back where he belonged. And if Danford returned to the war, surely Trent would be displaced, and Logan would be free of guilt at last.
As little as Riley wanted to give Cuthbert any satisfaction, at least when the asshole got what he wanted, the ghost war would disperse for good.
Riley pulled away from Logan and scuttled to Danford’s side. “Danford. You always claimed you were in the right. This is your chance. Prove you have some shred of decency left. Take your place again and put this all to rest.”
“I can’t,” Danford gibbered. “You don’t know what it was like. The censure of my friends, who should have taken my part. I only wanted my daughter, my firstborn. The Stumps didn’t deserve her.” He jerked his chin at the clot of apparitions across the uneven ground. “You know what Cuthbert called her? A common little bitch. My Anna, my angel.”
“But you killed his son.” Riley hunkered down next to Danford, willing him to listen to reason. “That’s all in the past, and you can’t change it. But you can we—redeem yourself. Accept the consequences of your actions. Give Stump his vengeance and save an innocent man.”
The ghost Danford broke from the crowd, his misty face suffused with half-resigned horror. God, that must be Trent, playing Balch’s role. He glanced at Logan, who was staring at the Trent-Danford, his jaw tight and his fists clenched at his sides. As the script demanded, Trent-Danford stormed past them, his spectral hand brushing an icy trail on the back of Riley’s neck.
The present-day Danford tracked his spirit double, rocking back and forth, his hands tearing clumps from the sparse fur lining of his parka hood. “No. No. No. I can’t. Don’t ask me to.”
Cuthbert’s voice rang out in tones of a fire-and-brimstone preacher. “If you think he’s man enough to pay for his crimes, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
Logan drew Riley to his feet. “Bert’s right. Balch is a coward. He won’t step up. He’s proved that for the last century and a half.”
“But . . .” Riley tried to break away and winced, cradling his left hand.
Ah Christ. He was still bleeding from where that bastard had cut him. Logan gentled his hold on Riley’s arm. Nothing could happen until Trent-as-Balch returned with the shotgun, so he had a little time left in this world. I’m spending it caring for Riley.
“Come here. Least I can do is bandage you up before I go.”
Riley resisted for a moment, then gave in, and Logan drew him as far from the spirits as he could.
“Sit.” He lowered Riley onto a fallen log, making sure he had a clear view of the spot Trent-Balch would reappear.
“I’m okay, Logan. We don’t have time for this.”
“I’m taking the time.” For the last time. He dug in the pockets of his fake jacket, searching for Charmaine’s bandana. When he pulled it out, something piggybacked it and fell to the ground.
“Shit.” Riley lunged for it but Logan blocked him and urged him back onto the log, dropping a kiss on his forehead.
“I’ll get it. You stay put.” He checked for Trent-Balch again. Still nothing, but it had to be close. Minutes at most. His last minutes with Riley.
The object next to his boot was a little cloth bag, barely as big as the palm of his hand, a bit worse for wear after its dive into the mud. Logan caught a whiff of mint. Was this some costume sachet shit, to keep Max’s spare costumes daisy fresh? The bag was lumpy, though. Something else was in there other than deodorizing herbs. He tugged at the drawstring.
“Don’t open it.” Riley’s voice held a note of panic.
What the hell? He wasn’t afraid of Cuthbert, but he’s afraid of this?
So of course Logan ripped the damn thing apart. A faded green confetti of herbs fluttered to the ground, along with a large blue stone.
And a platinum wedding band.
Logan’s heart tried to trip over itself. He picked up the ring and held it out. “What are you trying to do?”
Riley jumped up from the log, cradling his injured hand against his stomach. “Protect you, you big jerk. What do you think?”
“I think . . .” The blurred ghostly Trent-Balch returned, carrying his shotgun and the present-day Balch cringed, seeming to shrink inside the soiled folds of his parka. “I think we’re out of time.”
“No! Please, Logan, don’t.”
Logan evaded Riley, gritted his teeth and willed. My battle. My debt. My choice. He grabbed for the shotgun.
And got nothing but air. Trent-Balch continued on his way.
“What the fuck?” He caught up with him and tried again. Failed again. Logan had seconds at most before the place in the story where Trent had made his fateful choice. “Riley. Are you doing this?”
“No. You destroyed the charm bag. The anchor is gone.”
“Anchor?”
Riley edged closer and reached for him. “The anchor to keep you here.”
He stared at Riley’s wide eyes, his trembling mouth, his hand resting over Logan’s heart. You. You’re my anchor. You’re the only reason I’d stay. If he expected to make this work, he had to cut that anchor loose. He pulled the chain with the other ring out of his pocket.
He took Riley’s hand, set the chain and both rings in his palm, and closed his fingers. “You keep this. Keep them both.” Logan covered Riley’s hand with his own. “I’ve got to do this.”
“You don’t.” Riley threw the rings down. “Please, please don’t. Please stay.” He wrapped his hands behind Logan’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss, his passion and heat startling in the double-chill of October midnight and paranormal proximity. Logan moaned into Riley’s mouth, desperate for this last taste, a memory to take with him, to keep him warm, to help him remember being alive.
Christ, Riley was so much stronger than he was, always had been. He’d faced those drunken frat boys with his folklore smackdown. Owned up to being gay unapologetically. Hell, he’d have kissed Logan anywhere and everywhere, openly, if Logan hadn’t been such a chickenshit, his dad’s endless railing about keeping his public nose clean still rocketing around in his brain.
Whatever his dad said, though, loving Riley had been the best thing in his life. He ought to be brave enough to admit that before he left it behind.
Reluctantly, he disengaged from the kiss and rested his forehead against Riley’s. “You’re the hero, babe. My hero. Always were.” He kissed Riley again. Soft. Tender. Lingering. “I love you.”
Then he pulled away and strode forward to stand between the spirit of Balch and the last place Trent had stood in this world. This time, when Balch held out the shotgun, Logan took it.
“Logan!” Riley lurched forward—too late. The instant Logan’s hand closed around the stock of the shotgun, the ghost flickered and reformed with Logan’s features superimposed on Balch’s phantom face. In Logan’s place, a young man in a PSU hoodie appeared and collapsed on the ground, curling into a fetal ball, and shielding his head with both arms. Danford let out a stifled sob.
Balch—no, Logan—moved toward the knot of townsfolk by the wagon’s tailgate. By his stuttered pace, it was obvious he was fighting what the story demanded of him, but equally obvious that he couldn’t stop the inevitable. Riley raced forward, passing him, hearing a faint protest as if Logan was calling to him from down a deep well.
He whirled and stood in front of Logan. “You can stop this, Logan, remember? Force of will. Belief. That’s what it takes.”
A hand like a steel band gripped Riley’s wrist, and he looked away from Logan to meet the cold eyes of Cuthbert Stump.
“Vengeance is the most forceful will of all,” Cuthbert crowed and yanked Riley into the thicket of ghosts. Cold jolted him each time he touched one. He resisted, tried to p
ull away, but Cuthbert’s strength easily overcame his own.
They stopped next to the ghost of a young man loading a sack of flour into a wagon.
Riley faced Cuthbert with a bravado that was totally fake. “I’m not afraid of you. If I don’t want to join the battle, then there’s nothing you can do.”
“Doesn’t matter what you want. I want it enough for both of us. ’Sides, you belong here. Smelled it on you the first time I saw you. Blood of my blood, blood of his. This here’s your place. Easy for you to slip in. All it takes is a little shove.”
Riley tugged against that steely grip, to no avail. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you worry.” Cuthbert’s breath gusted over Riley’s face, cold as January and stinking of the grave. “I’m right behind you.”
He shoved.
Riley’s nerves buzzed, his skin tingled, then went numb, as if he’d passed through a shower of static and ice. Suddenly, the scene wasn’t ghostly at all. It was real. Solid. Forest Park had faded to a pale overlay and instead he was in a frontier street, rutted and muddy, a bag of flour just leaving his hands to land on a stack of other supplies.
Damn it. I’m in the ghost war? How? Who . . .?
He glanced around wildly. If he squinted hard, he could still see the clearing, the Witch’s Castle looming against the hillside. Where he had stood, a young man in pioneer garb kneeled in the mud, bewildered alarm on his face.
In the next instant, the young man was joined by another man, older, dressed in a dark bulky sweater and rough work pants, who staggered several steps before crumpling to the ground.
A yank on his elbow forced Riley around. Cuthbert’s angular face sneered from under a flat-brimmed hat. A young girl, maybe in her mid-teens, cowered next to Riley, her eyes fixed on a spot over his shoulder.
Holy shit. She must be Anna Balch. And if she was Anna, that made him . . .
As if something had taken control of his body, Riley was forced to turn in the direction of Anna’s terrified gaze and saw Logan-as-Balch advancing toward him, an all-too-real shotgun tucked under his arm.
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