Bait

by Kasi Blake

In the past Nick’s birthday wishes—the wishes he made in secret even though he told everyone who would listen he was too smart for that crap—were always ultra selfish. He wished for more money, a girl on each arm, his songs to go platinum. Now all he wanted was to be alone. If the wraith showed up to kill him, he was going to fight it on his own. Most importantly he was not going to risk Bay-Lee’s life.

  Nick hadn’t slept the night before. Intense planning kept him awake. There were several things to work out including where he was going to celebrate his birthday, what sort of traps he could set for the wraith, and what weapon he could use against it. There were several options for location. Since Van wasn’t home the castle seemed to be the best place for him to get attacked. He’d given the servants the day off.

  He went to the third floor, weapons room, and searched it for something that would dispatch a wraith. The thing might be invincible on his birthday, but there had to be a loophole. If Van had taught him anything over the years, it was that there was always a way out, always something a person could do to survive. Maybe he could keep it busy until after midnight. It would be vulnerable once his birthday was over.

  Somehow he was going to find a way to destroy the wraith. Then he’d be able to save Bay-Lee from the next one, if there was a next one. His plan was to cross over, torture the truth out of the first creature he saw, the truth about the wraith’s master. Then he would kill him if he was a monster, imprison him if he was human.

  Nick stood in the center of the weapons room, and his hungry gaze slid over the walls packed with weapons. There were swords and daggers, old-fashioned weapons like a mace and a whip, guns and rifles in every size. A small cannon sat in the corner with a stack of metal balls next to it. The original Van Helsing had bought the cannon off a real-life pirate. Nick walked around the display cases. His hands skimmed over the glass. He wasn’t worried about leaving greasy marks. If he died, smudges wouldn’t matter.

  Van used to take him through the room, showing off every piece of weaponry he owned and delivering a speech on each concerning their history, myths, and usage. Nick worked hard to retrieve the information lost in his brain. There had to be something he could take to battle with a wraith.

  He was about to give up when his eyes landed on a long sword pinned high to the wall on his left. Van had called it a Ghostblade. Nick took it off the wall, his fingers gripping the iron hilt tight. He turned it sideways and held it up to eye-level so he could stare down the length of the blade. At first glance it didn’t look like anything special. But if you stared at it long enough, relaxed your eyes, you could see a faint blue shimmer rising off the steel.

  “It can cut a ghost to shreds,” Van had told him.

  “Have you seen it in action,” Nick had asked. “Are you sure it works?”

  “It’s only a legend.” Van removed it from the wall and wielded it like an expert. He slashed the air with it, one hand behind his back. “It handles well. However, I wouldn’t want to depend on it in an actual fight. My father told me the legend when I was a boy, and he could not keep a straight face.”

  Young Nick’s expression collapsed. He’d wanted to believe in the Ghostblade. The name alone set his heart and imagination ablaze. What boy wouldn’t love to handle the only weapon that could kill a ghost?

  “Time to put the legend to the test,” Nick said in the present. Part of him wished Van was with him for this. If it worked, it was going to be an unforgettable moment. Nick slashed the air with the blade, copying Van’s movements from ten years earlier. “He was right. It does handle well.”

  With the Ghostblade in his hand Nick stormed from the room. His legs pumped with purpose. Although he didn’t run, he walked as fast as he could. Plunging down a dimly lit hallway made of grey stone—lamps that resembled torches hung on the walls— he pushed away dark thoughts and refused to contemplate his own death. If it happened, it happened. He was not going to wallow in regrets.

  Next, he prepared the ballroom. Since the wraith was coming for his birthday, he decorated accordingly. He hung blue streamers, adding a colorful sign to finish the look. Letters spelled out Happy Birthday. Bittersweet memories were attached to the decorations, parties without friends and without parents. Van’s servants did their best to make his birthdays festive, but there was only so much they could do. It was impossible to make a little boy forget his family didn’t want him—not only didn’t want him, but thought he should be dead.

  Nick reached back into the box of decorations and grabbed a bag of leftover confetti. He scooped up a handful of blue, green, red, and gold pieces of shiny aluminum cut into tiny party hats. Throwing confetti had been his favorite part. He launched it into the air, high, and watched it rain on the hardwood floor.

  Something whipped past him, lightning fast.

  Nick grabbed the Ghostblade’s hilt and lifted it off the table. Testing the weight in his hand, he bounced it around in his palm. He turned in a circle. His gaze swept along the walls of the large ballroom. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. If the wraith had come to kill him, it was hiding.

  “Where are you?” he called in a loud voice. “Peter? Peter!”

  The name echoed back to him. A new chill entered his bones, and the hair on the nape of his neck stood straight up. Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea. Smart hunters always had back-up. He grinned to himself, thinking no one had ever accused him of being smart.

  “Show yourself, Peter.”

  Another rush of wind met his ears. It sounded like wind, but nothing stirred. Nick growled in frustration. Maybe killing a ghost was impossible even with the legendary Ghostblade, but he knew one thing for certain. He couldn’t kill the thing if he never saw it. “What game are you playing?” he shouted.

  A soft voice spoke behind him. “Happy birthday, cousin.”

  Nick spun around. He only managed to lift the sword a few inches. The ghostly image of Peter flicked a hand at him, and he flew across the room. His body slammed into the wall. The sword fell, but he didn’t. His body remained pinned high to the wall as if invisible hands were holding him there.

  Now what?

  His gaze dropped to the sword on the floor, useless metal. He needed to get to it somehow or the night was going to end very differently from what he had planned. Sure he might die, but he was going to take the wraith with him. Maybe he could even get it to tell him the name of its master. He was sure he could live long enough to write the name in his own blood on the floor, leaving the truth for whoever found his body.