by Saint,Nic
The old ghost slowly drifted down from the ceiling, as if coming down from his cloud, and ignored Jarrett’s hand completely. “I’ve heard of you, and of course have done business with your father.” He studied Jarrett, like a cat surveying a mouse. “You’re the wastrel, aren’t you? The son who can’t.”
Jarrett’s smile didn’t diminish. On the contrary, it appeared as if he enjoyed the mild abuse. “Ha ha, touché, sir. I’m the wastrel, all right.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about you. Your father used to pour his lament into my ear on more than one occasion when I came to London. I trust he’s well?”
“Oh, Father’s fit as a fiddle. It is Mother who’s feeling a little under the weather these days.”
“She’s dying,” Harry explained.
Peverell’s eyebrows shot up. “Sorry to hear that. Tell her to look me up once she’s dead.”
“It won’t come to that,” said Jarrett quickly.
“It won’t?”
“No, I’m going to save her, you see. Once we place our hands on the Clavicule Necroire, we’re going to perform the ritual and save Mum’s life.”
“Well, if you must,” said Peverell, remarkably unimpressed.
“Yes, I must. She is my mother, after all.”
“Is she now?” said Peverell, losing interest in the conversation once more.
And as he started drifting toward the ceiling, Harry said, “Could you help us locate the book, Mr. Wardop? I mean, you can talk to other dead people, right?”
“Yes, I can. As can you, Harry.”
“I know, but there’s one dead person who’s been eluding us so far. Her name is Lakesha Fenton. Buckley—that’s Sir Buckley the antiquarian—talked to her but she refused to tell him anything.”
“Yes, some ghosts can be like that,” Peverell observed. “Shell-shocked at first, and utterly useless later on. Do you want me to have a word with her?”
“Oh, would you? Or you could locate her so we could have a word.”
He nodded curtly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
And before she had a chance to thank him, he’d simply popped off.
“Wow,” said Jarrett, looking like one who just met his favorite pop star. “Peverell Wardop. The guy’s a living legend. Or rather a dead one.”
She was still staring at the ceiling. “Crusty old ghost, isn’t he?”
“He was crusty in life, too,” Jarrett intimated. “Hasn’t changed a bit, in fact. At least if my father’s war stories are to be believed.”
“I just hope he can help us.”
“I’m sure he can.” Then he clapped his hands. “Anyway! What am I doing here? Apart from socializing with the likes of Peverell Wardop?”
“You’re trying to figure out how to stop Jingoist from killing me.”
“Oh. Right. Of course. Keep forgetting about that.” He looked around the room. “Nice place you got here.”
“You like it? I was staying at Darian’s first—I mean Inspector Watley’s—but my uncle thought it was safer if I stayed at his mother’s.”
“Darian, huh?” Jarrett asked, eyeing her a little cheekily. “Are you sure you don’t want me to work my matching skills on you and the esteemed inspector?”
“Oh, no!” she was quick to respond. “Of course not!”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” he muttered, rocking back on his heels with a smug smile on his face.
“The lady merely wishes to point out that she’s no match for the Inspector Watleys of this world,” she came back. “Nor does she wish to be.”
She thought back to what Constable Fret had told her; that Darian hadn’t looked at a woman since his wife left him and felt a pang of pity. Poor man. He must have been devastated if he was still recovering now, after all those years.
“Look, if I’m going to help you I need a place to stay,” he said, looking around at her cramped quarters.
“You can sleep on the couch if you want,” she offered, gesturing at the off-white couch near the wall. It appeared fairly comfy in her estimation.
But Jarrett stared at the cow-shaped sofa with extreme disdain, and she knew what he was thinking. For a man used to staying at the Savoy or the Ritz, Em’s couch wasn’t exactly his first choice. But quite astonishingly, he acquiesced.
“But only on one condition,” he said, holding up a finger.
“What’s that?”
“That you’ll put in a good word with this Brian Rutherford for me. I want to be a Wraith Wrangler too!”
“Of course,” she said, remembering Brian’s words about this not being a salaried position. After thinking it through, she didn’t know if she’d be able to combine this ghost business with working a full-time job. Or two jobs. Even now this simple case had turned her life upside down. She really didn’t see how she could combine ghost hunting with slaving away every day from nine to five. But those were considerations for a later date. “Of course I will.”
“This is gonna be so great!” Jarrett exclaimed, plunking his spindly frame down on the couch and deftly testing its softness by poking his long, slender fingers into its foam interior. “A slumber party and a ghost hunting team!”
Harry wished she could share Jarrett’s fervor, but since her life was still in danger she felt compelled to point out, “You’re here to protect me, Jarrett, not to hold a slumber party.”
“Sure,” he said vaguely, taking out a gold-plated iPhone. Then he was gibbering away to Deshawn, instructing his valet to fetch him his travel pajamas, his travel bathroom kit, his travel wardrobe, and a selection of midnight snacks to while away the time. He momentarily held his phone away from his ear and glanced at Harry. “Do you like the Wii? Do you want to play? I have the coolest new games.”
“No, I don’t want to play with your Wii, Jarrett,” she said with a laugh.
“Spoilsport,” he muttered and continued to rattle off to Deshawn a long list of items he needed to survive a night away from his precious suite at the Ritz-Carlton. An overnight stay of Jarrett Zephyr, Harry began to surmise, was a production on a par with staging a minor West End musical.
Chapter 35
When Harry had finally managed to drift off to sleep—she’d succeeded in tamping down Jarrett’s slumber party tendencies and induce the man to lie down and be quiet for a change—she found herself dreaming of Darian. In her dream she was Harry Holmes, investigating a case in nineteenth-century London, along with her trusty assistant Dr. Watley. At the moment they were both staring intently at a speck of dust on the windowsill of a murdered landlady’s lodgings, Harry gazing superciliously through a loupe, Dr. Watley hovering around, trying to exude intelligence by frowning deeply.
“By Jove, Watley!” she finally exclaimed. “This speck is not a speck at all!”
“Eh? What-what-what?” Watley asked, snapping to attention.
And as they stared at the speck in dismay, it appeared to grow larger, blowing up as if fed by some sort of super-yeast. Before long, it took on the shape of a voluminous book, the windowsill groaning under its weight.
“Look! It’s a book!” Watley cried out quite unnecessarily.
“I can see it’s a book, Watley,” Harry grumbled.
The book then fluttered open of its own accord, its ancient pages yellowed and smudged, as if thumbed by hundreds down the ages, and to Harry’s horror suddenly a thick, viscous red substance started dripping from its spine onto the windowsill, even as she saw hands reaching out from inside its pages, desperately trying to break free, as if caught in its dark innards.
“It holds people captive!” she cried.
Then, even as she spoke the words, she felt a strong and powerful pull, and before long both she and Dr. Watley were being drawn toward the book.
“By Jove! The damn thing is going to murder us!” Dr. Watley exclaimed.
And for once he was right. As Watley’s hat flew off and was swallowed up by the book, Harry saw that the curio had been turned into a gaping black hole, a dark smog now swirlin
g, red flames burning deep within its core. A vortex had opened up and was sucking them up, inexorably reeling them in.
Harry fought with all her might, throwing herself down on the floor, but it was all to no avail. The book’s power was thus that she couldn’t fight it. And then she saw it: the heart of the book morphed into a gaping maw, several sets of razor-sharp teeth snapping over a deepening gorge. The book wasn’t a book at all. It was a monster, threatening to devour them whole!
She reached out a hand and felt Dr. Watley’s fingers grasping her own. But before she could establish a foothold, they were both sucked into the terrible book, after sharing a long lingering look, a look that spoke volumes about what they felt about each other, and then she was sitting up in bed, uttering a strangled cry, her bosom heaving, her damp hair plastered to her skull, the room suddenly feeling close and far too hot.
And then the lights were switched on, and Em came rushing in.
“What’s wrong!” she cried, gripping a large shotgun in one hand and a pearl-handled gun in the other, checking the room for signs of an intruder.
“I just had a bad dream,” Harry was quick to reassure her hostess.
Her eye fell on Jarrett, who was still sleeping soundly, and she saw that his ears were covered with some type of funky fuzzy earphones, his eyes with a sleeping mask. Some protector, she thought with an exasperated groan.
“What a relief!” Em exclaimed. “The last thing I want is Darian accusing me of allowing his charge to be killed on my watch. He’d never forgive me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t like it very much either,” she pointed out.
Em took a seat on the bed. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep, honey? You look terrified.” She wiped Harry’s hair from her brow, and Harry watched her hostess with amazement. The makeup had been removed, and her hair let down, and she was dressed in a simple white cotton nightgown. She looked a far cry from the sophisticated socialite she purported to be. Here sat a motherly woman of middle age, her face displaying a sweetness she hadn’t hitherto realized Em possessed.
“I’m fine” she assured Darian’s mother. “I just had a terrible dream about the book.” And about Darian, but she didn’t think it was wise to mention that minor detail.
“The book. You mean the book that all this fuss is about?”
“The Clavicule Necroire,” she confirmed. “In my dream the book wasn’t a book at all, but some kind of monster. A monster that ate people alive, and then held them captive between its pages.” She gazed up at the other woman. “I’m starting to think there’s more to this book than meets the eye, Em.”
Em placed a cooling hand on Harry’s brow. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want me to bring you a cup of warm milk with honey?”
Harry nodded gratefully. “I would love that.” She felt embarrassed by the scene she’d caused, and Em’s behavior reminded her of her own mother, who used to comfort her as a girl each time she had a nightmare.
Em smiled. “I’ll be right back. You just take it easy and leave the light on for now. Monsters can’t come out when the lights are on, you know.”
She nodded. “Thank you so much, Em.”
“You’re very welcome, honey.”
Harry heaved a deep sigh as she thought of what her dream had wanted to tell her. Perhaps it was simply her fear telling her the book wasn’t what it appeared to be, but she had the distinct impression there was more going on.
She stared at Jarrett’s sleeping form, and listened to his soft snuffles and snores and couldn’t help but grin. He was some help, this guy.
And it was then that she saw a shift near the wall behind Jarrett. There was no other way to describe it. It was as if the wall simply… opened up, the indigo wallpaper starting to swirl, just like the book had done in her dream.
And then the lights in the room briefly flickered and were suddenly extinguished, the room plunged into utter and complete darkness.
An icy chill stretched out its cold tendrils in her direction, and she knew, without needing physical proof, that Jingoist was here.
Chapter 36
Jarrett awoke when a cold chill made him shiver. He was annoyed at the cold chill, for it told him that the list of items Deshawn had provided him with had been incomplete. He should have added his One Direction blanky to the stack, so he could snuggle comfortably in the collected warmth of Niall, Liam, Harry, Zayn, and Louis. Instead, he’d had to make do with one of Mrs. Sheetenhelm’s blankets, and the result was this sudden cold chill.
It took him a moment to wake up sufficiently to slip the sleeping mask from his face and root around for an extra blanket, and that’s when he saw he’d inadvertently landed himself on the set of Game of Thrones. Some ghoulish figure with glittering eyes and a freakishly stylish goatee was hovering over him, an overly large club in his hand, swinging it with homicidal intent, while Harry tried to ward the figure off with what looked like a statuette of Lady Chatterley and her fabled lover.
He’d seen Game of Thrones and hadn’t particularly liked it, for every time he started rooting for a character they were invariably gruesomely and quite unnecessarily slain, so he didn’t much care for the scene he was now witnessing. Then, just when the bludgeon described a downward arc, his head its obvious target, he had the keen sense to roll over and drop to the floor, just as the devastating force of the blow obliterated his Harry Styles pillow, sending fluffy feathers exploding in every direction.
“Hey!” he cried, extremely dismayed. “That just happens to be my favorite pillow!”
The man seemed undeterred, however, for he merely grunted something unintelligible and stepped over the sofa, ostensibly to make another strike.
It was the same man he’d met at the warehouse, Jarrett decided. The man called Jingoist, though there was something definitely off about him. Something… translucent, just like the ghosts he’d met so far. Both Sir Buckley and Peverell Wardop had that translucent quality, which led him to believe that this guy, too, might be a ghost. And a very angry one.
Aided by Harry, he scrabbled to his feet and threw off his earphones.
“What’s going on?” he cried.
“We’re under attack!” Harry stated the obvious, as they both moved away from the bludgeon-wielding maniac. But as they moved back, the man advanced, swinging his club with glee, a thin smile playing about his lips, fingering the goatee adorning his battle ram chin with relish. He seemed to be enjoying himself tremendously, Jarrett realized, and even though he usually admired a man who enjoyed his work, this wasn’t one of those occasions.
And just then the door swung open, and they were joined by a fourth party: Em Sheetenhelm. For a moment, the woman stood frozen in the doorway, a glass of milk and a plate of cookies in her hands, eyes riveted on this unbidden guest.
“Hey!” she then burst out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
The man emitted a feral growl, then turned on her, swinging his rather voluminous stick. Em jumped back just in time, but the glass of milk she’d been holding didn’t make it. The moment the club connected with the glass, shards, and white substance were distributed in all directions. Oddly enough, the spray went right through their mysterious assailant, as if he was a ghost.
“I don’t think this is the real Jingoist,” Harry surmised, confirming Jarrett’s suspicion. “More like a manifestation of him or something.”
“You mean like an astral projection?” he asked, eyes wide and following the man’s every movement lest he turn that deadly club on him again.
Em, who’d fled the room, now returned with a shotgun in her hand and wasted no time to take aim and pull the trigger. Jarrett braced for the sound of a gunshot, but there was none. No telltale discharge, and no bullet tearing through flesh and bone. Though if Jingoist was an astral projection there wouldn’t have been any flesh and bone to tear through at any rate of course.
“Dammit!” Em cursed. “What’s wrong with these people! First they give me a gun with
no bullets, and now a shotgun that doesn’t work! Me, a policeman’s wife!”
“Ex-wife,” Jarrett felt compelled to mutter.
Jingoist seemed to share her gripe, for he snatched the shotgun from her hands, and folded it in a neat and tidy knot, then let it drop from his fingers.
“Hey, that’s a really cool trick,” Jarrett said with genuine admiration. He’d seen it in comic books and on TV but never in real life.
But then Jingoist turned his attention on him again and started approaching him with languid menace, swinging a leisurely club.
Jarrett gulped. “Is-is that the club that killed Buckley, you think?”
“And Lakesha Fenton,” Harry added.
“I don’t know about you, Harry, but I’d rather not be turned into a ghost tonight. I’m far too young to die!”
“Me too!”
“I mean, I haven’t even excelled at anything yet! I was a lousy rock singer, a rotten figure skater, and I never made it past the first auditions of So You Think You Can Dance!”
“You were on So You Think You Can Dance?”
“Yeah, I really thought I could, until I discovered I couldn’t.”
They were now with their backs up against the wall, and if he’d been able to leap through walls, as apparently this Jingoist could, he would have. Unfortunately he was human, and very much a victim of the physical laws of the universe that blocked him from traveling through solid walls.
Frantically, his gaze darted around for a way out, and it just happened to settle on one of those hideous figurines Harry had been using for target practice. He picked one up, and tentatively lobbed it at Jingoist. It sailed right through the priest, who grinned evilly as if enjoying this new game.
Harry, undeterred, lobbed hers as well, and once again, it sailed right on through, shattering into a million pieces against the wall behind Jingoist.
“Erm, I think we’re in big trouble here!” Jarrett opined.
“I think you’re right!” was her immediate response.
Just then, another wraith-like figure descended from the ceiling, and Jarrett saw they’d been joined once more by the one and only Peverell Wardop.