Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place (Ghosts of London Book 1)

by Saint,Nic

  And he was contemplating countermeasures when he realized a fatal flaw in his plan. Mother. If he forbade Zephyr from entering her apartment, she’d see it as meddling in her personal affairs and would countermand his order.

  “Christ!” he cried as he stomped around his apartment for a moment, before finally coming to the one conclusion that was most beneficial for his mental health. He’d follow the sound advice of that Disney movie Frozen, and would simply let it go. If Harry McCabre wanted to entertain male friends at her newfound lodgings, who was he to stop her? And if her recklessness got her killed in the process, so be it!

  But even as he formulated the thought, he knew he couldn’t allow her to jeopardize her own safety. If something happened to her, Lord forbid, it would be on his watch, even though technically she was at his mother’s place.

  So when Zephyr exited the elevator, he found an immovable object in his path, and that object was Inspector Darian Watley. Some things, after all, are better handled personally, and one of those things was Zephyr.

  Chapter 32

  “Did you get the money?” the old man croaked into his phone.

  “Yes, I did,” a remarkably sonorous voice returned. “Thank you for a prompt delivery, Mr. Edwards.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, suppressing a coughing fit which sent tears to his eyes. He leaned up and gestured frantically at one of his goons who doubled as nurses for a sip of water. The musclebound ‘assistant’ came waddling up and handed him the baby bottle. He quaffed long and deep, and the tickle relented, allowing him to continue the conversation. Years of heavy smoking had turned his lungs to mush, and now he was suffering the consequences. “So when is the procedure planned?” he asked eagerly.

  “Soon, Master Edwards,” the voice came back. “Very soon now.”

  “Great. Cause if you wait any longer there won’t be anything left to fix.”

  He was wondering what was taking the other guy so long. He had the book, so why didn’t he fix him up already? But then of course he hadn’t the foggiest how these ancient healing rituals worked. Maybe Jingoist needed to prepare, or perhaps there was some other mysterious reason for the delay. He decided not to press. Even though he was used to pressing people, and pressing them hard, this was one guy he didn’t want to antagonize.

  “Do you come to me or do I come to you?” he wanted to know.

  “You’ll have to come out here, I’m afraid.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he muttered. “No worries, though. I’ll just have an ambulance cart me over.” He emitted a wheezy laugh. “My last trip as an invalid, right?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Edwards,” said the other man without a trace of humor.

  This Jingoist wasn’t big on talking, Edwards had noticed. Even the first time they’d made contact he hadn’t said more than a few words. But it didn’t matter if the other guy was tongue-tied, of course. As long as he delivered on his promise, he could be the Mute of Portici for all he cared.

  “You’ve got to give me some advance notice, though,” he said. “I need to organize this trip. So when…” His voice trailed off when his ears registered an annoyed grunt. It seemed to come from his correspondent.

  “I told you soon, Master Edwards, so soon it is.”

  “Yeah, soon it is,” he echoed, smacking his lips and gesturing for the baby bottle once more. He took another sip while he tamped down his irritation. If only he didn’t need this pesky middleman. He’d had the book. Why couldn’t Philo have performed the ritual? Or any idiot for that matter? He hated having to rely on people, especially when his life depended on it.

  “I’ll see you soon, Edwards,” the man said softly, and promptly disconnected.

  “Soon, soon, soon,” he muttered. “What a load of crap.” His head sagged against the pillows. He was soaking wet, simply from the exertion of the short telephone call. If Jingoist didn’t get a move on, he’d be dead soon. For his two million pounds—a million for the book and a million for Jingoist—he expected quick service, and quick service was exactly what he wasn’t getting from this annoying Chinese slacker. But then he was quickly drifting off into a dreamless sleep once more, his reserves depleted. One of the biggest crime bosses the East End had ever known was sleeping soundly once more.

  Jingoist stared angrily before him. He was a hulking man with swarthy complexion, fuzzy eyebrows and a patrician hook nose that slashed his face like a sundial. His eyes were dark and menacing, as was his scowl. He wasn’t directing that scowl at anyone in particular but rather at the world at large, which seemed to be thwarting him at every turn. First Lakesha Fenton had gone and sold his book—his book—and now he was being hounded by the British police simply for cleaning house. People had no right to steal from him. He’d worked for the Absinthian Church long enough to warrant ownership of the Clavicule Necroire. He was one hundred and fifty years of age, and throughout all those years he’d been harboring the secret hope one day to improve his life by using the powers of the book for his own advantage.

  He’d been leading the most excruciatingly boring life up to that point, and during his many visits to the West had grown covetous of the lifestyle of the rich and privileged, a plan slowly forming in his mind. If only he could monetize the book’s tremendous powers, he’d be set for life—eternal life. No one understood his frustration as he sat in temple and watched the Elder heal petty farmers and other inhabitants of the mountain regions of Absinthia, the distant province they inhabited. The farmers would pay a pittance and be on their way, while here in the West millionaires and billionaires were prepared to pay their weight in gold to obtain the secret of eternal health and youth.

  A service like this could net them millions, but all the Elder ever asked for was a token contribution to the Temple Fund, which maintained the church buildings and the priests’ most basic needs.

  They could live like princes, and travel the world in style, but oh no, that obstinate Elder insisted on a life of austerity, abstinence, and celibacy.

  When finally he’d managed to convince one of the pager turners to join forces, he’d been elated, even though he’d known he was creating a lot of bad blood between himself and his fellow priests. But he also knew they would never harm him. He was still an ordained priest and part of church leadership.

  And it wasn’t as if the theft of the Clavicule Necroire would herald the end of the church. They would simply lose their parlor trick of healing the sick and turning the deserving immortal but they would still have their faith.

  He looked around at the small back room he was now occupying at Madame Wu’s restaurant. It reminded him of his small cell in Absinthia, the walls bare and furniture minimal. When he’d had to flee the warehouse, where he’d set up operations, he’d had to find another hiding place quickly, and Madame Wu had been most forthcoming, especially when he promised her a small fortune. He’d barely escaped capture when that young fool had come barging in, the police now hot on his trail. He might be immortal, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be arrested and locked up in prison like any mortal. In fact he’d suffer far worse, for he might be in there for quite a long time if they sentenced him to life in prison.

  He looked up when his assistant entered, bowing before she approached. Her name was Chantelle Chan, and she’d been his second choice when selecting an accomplice. Unfortunately he should have trusted his instincts and approached her first, instead of that treacherous Lakesha. Like Lakesha, Chantelle was a raven-haired beauty, her pale face free of makeup. She was trained in several martial arts techniques, which had come in handy so far, and was loyal and trustworthy, considering Jingoist her true master.

  “And? Have you discovered the girl’s whereabouts?” he asked curtly.

  Chantelle nodded. “She’s at the apartment of the police inspector investigating the murder cases,” she said, eyes downcast.

  He smiled. “Good. Very good. I’ll deal with her tonight, and then we can finally move forward with our plans.”
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  “There is a problem,” Chantelle said, looking a little nervous.

  “Problem? What problem?”

  “She’s staying at the flat of the policeman’s mother, and she’s being protected by another policewoman posted at the door.”

  Jingoist shrugged. “That is not a problem for me. You know I can come and go as I please.”

  “Yes, but…” She frowned, visibly distraught. “When I was watching the house I saw the man arrive who tried to steal the book. Jarrett Zephyr.”

  “So? The more the merrier. They will all die at the hands of Jingoist.”

  “There’s… five people in the house,” she said as she finally looked up, her almond-shaped eyes large and expressive. “Are you going to kill them all?”

  “Five is nothing,” he assured her. “In fact I think I’ll rather enjoy it.”

  And it was true. He needed a way to vent his irritation and slaying five was just the ticket. And while the person he most wanted to destroy was the Elder, he would simply use these hapless mortals as a substitute. Each time he killed, he pictured it was the head of the Elder he was bashing in, and each time it gave him more satisfaction. Tonight’s killing would simply be a blast.

  “Did you bring me what I asked for?” he demanded, holding out his hand. His black robe fell away and revealed a superbly muscular arm.

  Chantelle nodded and handed him a neatly folded swath of exquisite brocade. Traditionally it was draped over the person about to be healed, and he was nothing if not a stickler for tradition. He smiled contentedly as he let his fingers caress the gold-threaded material, sporting a motif of birds and flowers. It was the final item he needed to perform the ritual on Master Edwards. And once the man’s story of miraculous healing spread, other, more prominent members of society would clamor for his unique service. His coffers would soon be filled with coin, and then he could leave this crummy back room and set up shop in one of the fancy hotels London boasted. The Ritz-Carlton, for instance, where he could take a suite, and practice the art of endowing people with the aura of immortality in style.

  He nodded to his disciple. “You may leave now. I will be alone.”

  He needed to prepare for the final bloodbath. Murdering one person was nothing, but five? He needed to be mentally and physically at his sharpest.

  “Yes, Master,” she said softly, bowing as she retreated to the door.

  Then she was gone, and he fingered his goatee thoughtfully, a resolute look on his square face. Then he closed his eyes and started his mental preparations. “Soon,” he murmured as he turned inward and entered the alpha state that was a precursor to his projection. “Very soon now…”

  Chapter 33

  Harry heard the commotion even before she read Jarrett’s message.

  ‘Stuck at front door. Help!’ the message read.

  She grinned and quickly jogged into the hallway. Em had already opened the front door, and sounds of a fierce discussion were pouring into the apartment from the corridor. When she joined her hostess in the doorway, she was treated to a rare scene: Jarrett was arguing vehemently with Darian, Constable Fret looking on a little dazedly, and it appeared as if both men were about to come to blows. They were both quite red in the face and yelling at the tops of their lungs, even while Tilda Fret stood tugging at Jarrett’s sleeve. It was quite the vaudeville act, as Jarrett, in turn, was tugging at Darian’s sleeve, something which the latter didn’t seem to appreciate, for he made desperate attempts to remove Jarrett’s fingers.

  “Quiet!” suddenly Em’s authoritative voice rang out, and as if the two men were dogs in Cesar Milan’s kennel and she the famous dog whisperer, Jarrett and Darian looked up simultaneously, their words cut off in midair, seemingly surprised that their little scene was being surveyed by witnesses.

  “Darian!” Em called out, hands on her hips. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Treating a distinguished guest like Mr. Zephyr with such contempt?!”

  These words were apparently too much for Darian, for he snapped, “If this guy is a distinguished guest I’ll eat my hat!”

  “You don’t even have a hat,” his mother snapped back, then stepped to the fore, slapped Tilda Fret’s hand from Jarrett’s sleeve, Jarrett’s hand from Darian’s sleeve, and attached herself to Jarrett, tugging him along like a tugboat guiding a ship to harbor. “You’re coming with me,” she told him, “and you and you,” she added, darting furious glances at Darian and Constable Fret, “are staying put.”

  “But—”

  “Uh-uh!” she cried, cutting off her son’s retort.

  “But he’s—”

  “Not another word from you, young man!” she bit, and then ushered Jarrett through the door and into her apartment and slammed the door shut.

  “Really, Jarrett, has my son hurt you in any way?”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine, Em,” said Jarrett, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Perfectly fine,” he added as he dusted himself off and straightened his costume after the recent fracas.

  “I do apologize for Darian’s appalling behavior,” she said, giving him a once-over and apparently liking what she saw, for she placed an affectionate hand on his arm. “Oh, Jarrett, why don’t you come around here anymore?”

  “I stopped coming around when you stopped throwing parties, Em.”

  “Well, that can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Apparently police business and parties don’t mix, and Darian has strictly forbidden me to turn this house into a den of inequity as he calls it.” She rolled her eyes quite expressively at this.

  “Pity,” Jarrett said. “Your parties were always the very best.”

  This seemed to please her. “They were, weren’t they?”

  Harry cleared her throat loudly. She didn’t want to break up the lovefest now in progress, but there were more urgent matters that needed addressing.

  Both Em and Jarrett looked up at the sound, and then Jarrett said, “Oh. Right. Well, I’m sorry, Em, but could you please give Harry and me a moment? There are some matters of extreme importance we need to discuss.”

  “Pray tell,” she said eagerly. “What matters of extreme importance might you have to discuss with dear, sweet Harry here?”

  Jarrett gave her a gently reproachful look. “Please, Em. You know a gentleman never tells.”

  Harry thought it was ladies who never told, but apparently Em wasn’t a lady, for she seemed extremely irked, and returned snappishly, “Oh, well, if you feel that way. It’s just that I thought we were friends, Jarrett.”

  “We are friends, Em,” he stressed. “Dear, dear, dear friends. But these are…” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “… affairs of the heart.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, and a knowing smile crept up her lips. “Say no more, Jarrett. My lips are sealed.” Then she directed a saccharine smile at Harry. “Oh, my sweet, sweet child. Why didn’t you confide in me?”

  Harry stared from Jarrett to her hostess, a little confused. “I’m sure I don’t know…”

  “That you’re in love!” Then she tapped Jarrett’s chest smartly. “But don’t despair. Jarrett here is the best matchmaker you could ever hope to find. Once upon a time he almost set me up with a real duke, no less.” She giggled like a teenager. “Of course I couldn’t go through with it. Not while I was still legally bound to Darian’s father.” The thought seemed to bring back happy memories, for she sighed wistfully. “One of these days you must work your magic on me, Jarrett. Life as a divorcee is dreadfully lonely, you know. And now that I’m forbidden by my own son to host my fabled parties, I’m wasting away. Positively wasting away!”

  Harry didn’t have the impression her hostess was wasting away, for the woman was about as robust as anyone she’d ever met, but she didn’t mention these thoughts, and neither did Jarrett. Instead, he assured her, “Once I have Harry all set up, I’m going to turn my attention to you. That’s a promise.”

  Em giggled again and fluttered her eyelashes semi-coyly. “I can’t wait.”
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br />   Chapter 34

  But then Jarrett finally followed Harry into the room that she now temporarily called her own, and once the door was safely closed behind them, she whispered, “What was that all about?”

  Jarrett grinned. “Just a little parlor trick I picked up a long time ago. You see, Em’s parties invariably consisted of a dreary collection of Scotland Yardies, the most dreadful bunch of bores, so to liven up the scene a little bit, I developed a keen eye discerning who was most compatible with whom, and made it my object for the evening to set up dates between these potential lovebirds. And lo and behold, almost every time the match turned out to be made in heaven!” He shrugged as he idly studied his fingernails. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

  “Yes, well, you’ll have to practice your gift some other time, for I’ve got someone here who’s dying to meet you.”

  Jarrett looked up, his eyes sparkling. “And I he,” he said, his voice taking on a deferential tone. He whirled around, surveying the room. “Where is he?”

  Harry frowned, for she saw no evidence of Peverell Wardop. “Erm, Mr. Wardop? Are you still with us?”

  “I’m afraid I am,” a rather tired voice sounded from the ceiling. Both Harry’s and Jarrett’s eyes drifted up, and sure enough, Peverell Wardop was floating near the ceiling, studying Em’s crystal chandelier and looking positively bored. He resembled an angel, Harry thought, if angels were really old men without wings who looked like extremely crotchety mummies.

  “Mr. Wardop?” Jarrett called out. “Mr. Peverell Wardop?”

  “Speaking. And you are?”

  Jarrett’s chest swelled. “Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton the Third, sir.”

  A flicker of recognition came into Peverell’s eye. “Zephyr? Not the Zephyr?”

  “One and the same,” Jarrett acknowledged, holding out his hand to shake Peverell’s.