by Harper, Lou
All Denton wanted was a few minions. He got frogs instead.
Web developer by day and necromancer by night, Denton Mills is used to seeing things nobody else can. When he starts hallucinating frogs, he simply assumes they have something to do with his boyfriend Bran's obsession.
Bran Maurell is a witch, who in a youthful outburst, accidentally turned his then-lover, Peter, into a croaker. Bran has been trying ever since to reverse the spell. A fresh amphibian encounter only spurs him to double his efforts.
As if Peter's ghost coming between them weren't enough, Denton and Bran are forced to deal with several errant spirits stalking the citizens of Chicago. Between a French chef who refuses to admit he's dead, and malevolent creatures bent on causing mayhem, jealousy may be the least of Denton's problems.
Copyright © 2014 Lou Harper
Cover Art by Lou Harper Copyright 2014
Smashwords Edition
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Josephine Myles and Kiki Lynnwood.
DINNER GHOST
Chapter One
"What in the name of Hecate are you wearing?" Bran's tone teetered between bafflement and alarm.
Denton had anticipated Bran's reaction, and secretly reveled in being able to surprise his generally unflappable boyfriend. He had promised to buy them a pair of kilts months ago but he knew Bran hadn't taken him seriously. Taking two steps into the living room he twirled around in a totally non-girly way. "It's called a utility kilt." He swiveled his hips to show off the side of the garment. "See, it even has pockets for storing stuff. You know, keys, wallet, a bag of graveyard dust. Whatever you got. Practical, eh?"
Technically, his kilt had gone well beyond mere utility with its steampunk-inspired design of straps, buckles, and other embellishments, but Denton had always liked extras. He'd wanted the kilt the moment he laid eyes on it at the online store.
Bran stared at the tan fabric first, then at Denton's bare legs showing between the hem and the orange socks puddling around his ankles. "It looks like a skirt to me."
Denton eagerly clarified the situation. "Nah, it only would be a skirt if I wore underpants."
With a pained expression Bran closed his eyes and kept them shut for several seconds—possibly counting to ten. When he opened them again they brimmed with resignation. "You're going to freeze your balls off."
"We're driving, aren't we?"
"Yes, but—"
"My balls will be fine." Denton did a quick shimmy with his hips. The swoosh of the thick cotton against his skin was anything but unpleasant. "You should try this; it feels so…liberating."
Bran's jaws set in a stubborn line. "I'm not going to a dinner at your friend's place wearing a skirt."
"Kilt. And Joy's your friend too now. Anyway, I meant around the house. Instead of those baggy jeans. The kilt I bought for you is tasteful and black, just how you like your clothing, but still functional with a pocket on one side for your eyes of newt or whatnot." He closed the few steps separating them till they were toe-to-toe. He wrapped his arms around Bran's waist. "It would be much more comfortable for your tail." Denton wasn't talking euphemistically. Bran had a perfectly formed, hairless, and surprising agile tail. Apparently, stuff like this happened when you had a demon for a father. Denton slipped a hand down to Bran's backside, over the spot where ordinary people had the beginning of their coccyx and pressed his finger at the root of Bran's bonus appendage. "Just think about it," Denton said quickly to cut off possible protest.
Bran sighed. "Fine, I'll think about it."
Denton grinned. "Good, because I have a pornucopia of fantasies of you in a kilt." Before Bran could respond, Denton leaned in for a kiss. Bran's lips parted and he demonstrated far more enthusiasm than he had for Denton's wardrobe improvements. Denton believed one could tell a lot about a person from the way they kissed. Bran was all warmth and suppressed passion burning like furnace under his reserved façade. A flash of desire prickled Denton's skin and gave him all sorts of wicked ideas—they had plenty of time for a quickie.
Sadly, the sharp buzz of the intercom crashed his plans. "Dammit," Denton growled as Bran pulled away. He marched out into the foyer and pushed the talk button. "Yes!"
"Hello?" Came the cautious reply. "This is Leonard Fenster. I…I need to talk to you. I think."
In a blink Denton connected the name with the image of a drunk young man in a Spiderman costume from a few days ago. It'd been a memorable night. "Lenny? Come on up." He pressed the button to unlock the gate three floors down.
"Who is it?" Bran asked, appearing in the doorway.
"Lenny from the New Year's Eve party."
A twitch of Bran's brows suggested annoyance. "What does he want?"
Denton shrugged. "I don't know. We'll find out soon enough."
"Well, put on pants. He probably already thinks we're a couple of perverts."
"I don't know why he would," Denton said, but went to the bedroom to change. The way Denton figured, if anything, Lenny should be grateful to them for getting him rid of the naasi—a troublesome demonic spirit—who'd taken residence in his body. Although, he probably didn't remember much of it, especially the last bit, where they'd banished the spirit. Bran had put Lenny under a spell of torpidity for that part.
Aside from being half-demon, Bran was also a witch. He'd inherited his talent from his mother. Layla Maurell used to run a lucrative business of high-end witchcraft in Chicago before packing her bags and moving to California. She'd left some of her former clients to Bran. Much to Bran's chagrin.
***
Denton was still thinking of Layla when he opened the door—now wearing jeans, shirt, and a friendly smile. "Come in," he said and stepped aside.
Lenny stood stiff at the threshold. "There are people who know I'm here." He wasn't a bad-looking guy in his twenties, although soft around the edges. He had an amiable face, not fit for the stern expression he was trying to affect.
Denton kept his smile on. "Ehrm, good? You said you wanted to talk."
Lenny looked Denton over from the eyebrow studs to the T-shirt and jeans. His gaze lingered on the orange socks before making eye contact again. "Yes." He stepped inside.
Denton led the way to the living room. Bran stood at the window with a watering can in his hand and fussing with his potted plants. "Bran, Lenny's here," Denton said.
Bran put the can down, turned, and nodded. "Good afternoon." His voice and expression both came short of conveying welcome.
Lenny stiffened again and hesitated before taking an offered chair.
"Can I get you something? Coffee, tea?" Denton asked as hospitably as he could. He also flashed a warning glance at Bran.
Lenny replied with surprisingly emphatic "No!"
"Okay." Denton plunked himself on the couch and a second later Bran joined him.
Uncomfortable silence threatened but it fled at the appearance of Bran's large black cat. "Mowrr." Murry—aka Murmur—emerged from behind a flower pot, ambled to their guest, sniffed, and rubbed his face to Lenny's shin. Lenny reached down and scratched Murry's head.
"You like cats?" Denton asked.
"Sure. Dogs too." Lenny watched Murry slink under the coffee table and
climb on the couch on the other side, sprawling out between Denton and Bran. His gaze traveled around the room, taking in the bookshelves and the jungle of plants crowding around the windows and the balcony door. "What do you do?"
"Bran writes books about herbs, and I'm a freelance web engineer," Denton replied. It was all true, even if only part of the truth. "How about you?"
"Oh, I'm a claims adjuster. At Johnston Mutual. Nothing exciting."
"So what can we help you with?" Denton asked.
Lenny cleared his throat, shifted in his seat, and a hint of pink creeped onto his cheeks. "I'd like to know what happened the other night. Everything."
Since Bran was staring out the window, showing no sign of wanting to join the exchange, Denton answered. "We bumped into you in the men's room at the party. You were busy throwing up and hanging onto the toilet for dear life. Then you asked for help. But since you wouldn't tell us where you lived, we brought you here and let you sleep it off, right on this couch." Denton patted the leather cushion. Most of what he said was true, though he'd weaved in a thread fiction as well. They'd brought Lenny home with them because of the naasi. "I know, being dragged home by a couple of strangers must seem creepy in hindsight, but we had a few drinks too, and you were so utterly stewed—I'm not sure you knew your own name. You sure couldn't walk straight. What would you have had us do?" Denton spread his hands in a questioning gesture.
Uncertainty ruffled Lenny's expression. "Well…"
"Lenny, do you feel you were any way mistreated?"
"N-no." The shade of pink returned to Lenny's cheeks.
"Then what's the problem?"
Lenny took a deep breath. "It's just, you know…I'd never been so wasted in my life before, and definitely never went home with anyone I didn't know…well, not guys…well, except one time, almost, but I'd been doing Jägermeister shots that night. What I wanted to say, something queer…" His eyelids fluttered nervously. "I mean, something weird happened to me on New Year's Eve, and I don't think it was only the booze."
Denton nodded to show sympathy. "What do you remember?"
"Not much, to be honest. I know I was at the party, but it's a bit of a blur. I clearly remember being sick in the bathroom. Oh, and talking to a girl in a Catwoman outfit."
"Michelle Pfeiffer or Halle Berry?"
Lenny pinked a little more. "Halle Berry. She was hot. And then there was a guy who must have been death or something."
Denton lifted his hand. "It was me. Necromancer. From Swords and Magic of Calingor."
"Huh?"
"A game. Never mind. Anything else?"
"Not really. It's all a big haze. My clearest memory from the whole night is waking up here at around three in the morning. That's why I came to you."
Before Denton could respond, Bran abruptly leaned forward, dark eyes pinning Lenny to the chair. "If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Fenster, what is the last clear memory you have from before the party? Did you meet a stranger that day? Maybe someone who gave you a gift? Anything out of the ordinary?" Bran had a way of coming across intimidating even when he didn't mean to.
Finding himself at the focus of Bran's attention made Lenny fluster like a kid in the principal's office. Concentration pinched his face. He slowly shook his head. "Uhm, no. I went to see my girlfriend in the morning." A shadow passed over his expression. "Ex-girlfriend. I remember it crystal clear."
"Where?" Bran asked.
"At her apartment."
"And where's her apartment?" Bran asked again. Denton's practiced ears detected the note of exasperation in Bran's tone.
"Oh. Lincoln Park. Sedgwick Street." Denton noticed Lenny's eyes lose focus and shine suspiciously as he rambled on. "I wanted to tell Angie how much I missed her and wanted her back. She left me two months ago because she caught me kissing her sister. It was a total set up, I swear. Nora practically threw herself at me. I don't even like her, but I had a few beers, and one thing led to another. You know how it is. I bet she did it to break us up; she never liked me." He was slumping deeper and deeper in the chair as he spoke, but he shook his head and pulled himself straight. "Hey, why am I telling you this?"
"I don't know." Bran squeezed his eyes together for a second. He really wasn't a people person. "So you went there, knocked on her door, then what?"
"She wouldn't even let me in. I don't think she was alone. So I went home." Lenny halted and bit his lip. "Hm, I almost forgot. Something odd happened, just as I was leaving."
"What?" Bran asked sharply.
"Well, there's a wall in front of her building, about waist-high, with planters on top. In the summer it's full of flowers but of course they're empty now. The one right next to the gate had a frog sitting right in the dirt. I thought it was one of those realistic toy things, it was so still, and what would a frog do out and about in December, right?"
Minute tensing of Bran's shoulders betrayed his concern over this information. "Right. What did you do?"
Lenny remained oblivious to Bran's tension. "I touched it and it made a sound and jumped. Almost gave me a fucking heart attack. And I just walked away." His face scrunched again with the effort of trying to remember. "And…I don't recall much afterwards." His eyes shone with recognition. "It had to be the frog! But how? It makes no sense."
Bran leaned back in his seat. "Some toads excrete psychoactive substances. It could've been someone's escaped pet. Did your finger come in contact with your mouth, or maybe your eyes, after touching the animal?"
"I dunno. Possibly."
Silence gathered in the room as Lenny processed the information, but Bran broke it. "What part of Sedgwick Street?"
Lenny emerged from his reverie. "North of Armitage. I must say this is the weirdest thing that ever happened to me. Thanks for helping me figure it out, and for the other night."
A visibly relieved Lenny thanked them a few more times, then shoved off.
***
"It was no hypno-frog," Denton said once Lenny finally left.
Bran was in the foyer too, pulling his shoes on. "Nope. It was the naasi in the body of the frog looking for a suitable human host."
Denton was still confused about this whole naasi business. "A frog in December? Okay, it was unseasonably warm, but that's still not right."
"A frog possessed by a demonic spirit," Bran corrected him.
"Hey, wait a minute. You told me the naasi couldn't hop from one host to the other."
"No, not from human host. But they can transfer relatively easily from a lower life form to a person. Demonic spirits in general are single-minded creatures. Their instincts pull them toward a suitable human host. There has to be some factor to make the person susceptible to possession. I suspect Mr. Fenster is a fairly hedonistic person with little self-control. The break-up with his girlfriend must've made him more vulnerable." Bran yanked his shoelaces tight and straightened up. "The spirit can inhabit an animal, and even inanimate objects for a short time, but in most cases must find a human host soon or it'll lose power and is drawn back to the demonic realm. Quite different from the spirits of the dead who can linger without possessing anyone, and as a matter of fact, rarely do."
"How do you know all this stuff?"
"I told you—I was homeschooled by my mother till age twelve. By then I knew how to hide my tail. She taught a few extra subjects, like history of witchcraft and demonology. And my dad dropped in for a few lessons, when he could make time." He clasped Denton's shoulder and squeezed. "Come on, we need to get going or we'll be late." He grabbed his coat from the hanger and shrugged into it.
Denton checked his watch—it was indeed time to head over to Joy's. "Don't forget the pie." He plopped on the short bench under the coat rack and proceeded to pull on his shoes.
Bran took the sweet potato pie from the kitchen and they were out the door.
***
"Oh damn, I forgot to put my kilt back on," Denton said with dismay in the car. They were already halfway to their destination.
"I
'm not turning back. We'd be late," Bran replied.
"Joy won't mind."
"I will. It's rude."
"You did it on purpose. You rushed me out the door so I'd forget the kilt."
"I plead the fifth."
"You devious devil." Denton remembered something Bran had said. "Why Hecate?"
"Huh?"
"You said what in the name of Hecate—"
"Oh, of course. I picked the saying up from Mother. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, herbs, and necromancy."
"Cool!" Bran's upbringing was an endless source of fascination to Denton. However, in the six months they'd been together he did his utmost to respect Bran's natural reticence, so he'd been learning about it tidbit by tidbit. "Neat. We can cover all the bases with one deity—with you being both a witch and an herbalist, and me a necromancer." Ever since a near-death accident at the age of nine Denton had had a special relationship with the dead. In some circles it earned him the nickname "Dead Man," but not until after meeting Bran did he learn he qualified as a bona fide necromancer. It had come as a surprise at the time, but since then he'd gotten used to it. He was even secretly proud of it, despite not having a cool undead army like his computer game counterparts. "Should we erect a shrine for Hecate or something?"
"It won't be necessary."
"What does your mother do?"
Bran shuddered. Mentioning his mother tended to provoke the most obvious reactions from him. "All of her worships and celebrations tend to involve dancing around bonfires half-naked, preferably at full moon, in the company of pagans and other hippy types. One fourth of July party from when I was fourteen still haunts me."
"C'mon, it couldn't have been so bad."
"Let me just say this: some people are too bulky and hairy to wear only a loincloth and body paint. Especially if they are planning to frolic in firelight."
Denton's imagination drew a vivid picture. "It must've been a sight."