by Lori King
"I know," he said in a tight voice. From what he said next, his thoughts paralleled hers. "But I can't call for a search and rescue without some proof that one's necessary. So far, we don't have enough to justify it."
"Are you sure he's still alive?" Victoria hated being the one to make the suggestion, but the thought had crossed her mind more than once. They should at least discuss the possibility.
Daniel's jaw hardened and his gaze locked on some far-off point. She got the distinct impression his mind went elsewhere. A hint of magic—tart and orangey—flavored the air. The hunter's mark—the tattoo dagger on his upper arm—emanated a faint glow. Not the brilliant strobe effect from when he faced combat; only a tenth as bright. Following the delay, his handsome features set in a mask of resolve.
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"You know because of that?" Victoria pointed to the tattoo. She wanted to ask why he could use hunter magic to confirm Macan still lived but not ascertain the missing man's location.
"Yeah." He read her mind, because he added, "My father would be able to track Macan with the mark, but remote scrying is beyond my ability. The best I can say is he's still alive—for now." A worried frown pinched his face.
"We're going to find him," Victoria promised with absolute conviction. She strengthened her hold on his hand and entrenched her resolve. Though, for good measure, she added a prayer to Freya and Freyr—and whatever deity happened to be listening—that this evening of Winter Nights would not end in tragedy.
His jaw jutted, fierce determination. "Time out is over. Let's get back in the game."
6
The whereabouts of Macan Guffin wasn't so much a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Rather, it bore closer resemblance to a preschool jigsaw puzzle—sticky and smelly pieces, some with their fronts chewed off, others missing... In other words, a real mess.
After dinner, they'd returned to their suite at just past ten p.m. Daniel wanted to comb through all the material they'd taken from Macan's room. He plunked down in the middle of the bed, put his back against the headboard, and spread out dusty maps, yellowed newspaper clippings, journals, and notebooks, along with various other miscellanies all over the bedspread.
Victoria watched him, snorted to herself, smiled, and shook her head. It looked like all the thought she'd put into how to handle his anticipated advance was for naught. The man meant what he'd said about getting back to work. A shame—she'd been looking forward to the continuation of that kiss they'd shared before dinner.
Determined to help, she perched on the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed. At random, Victoria picked up a hardbound book that was grimy with age. When she opened it, she discovered a black and white photograph of a family tucked between the pages. The man was a silver fox—in his late sixties or early seventies—with a full head of gray hair and a groomed handlebar mustache. He had piercing dark eyes and rigid posture. Although not dressed in traditional Scottish garb, he did wear a distinctive clan crest brooch pinned to the front of his shirt. His hand rested upon the shoulder of a plain-looking woman, presumably his wife, who looked to be about half his age. Twin boys of six or seven years crowded close to her as though fearful of their father. She turned it over, but there were no names on the back.
Victoria tucked the picture back into place and turned to the first entry, dated May 1944. The book wound up being the personal journal of Patrick Guffin, Macan's great-grandfather, who had written everything in longhand. Despite being in cursive, she found it easy-reading thanks to his neat penmanship. She needed clues, not the story of the man's life, so she skimmed, sometimes flipping three or four pages. He'd kept elaborate entries rife with details and personal asides. The hunter's cutting wit leaped right off the page, and she imagined Patrick speaking the words he'd penned decades before.
Ever impatient, Victoria flipped until she located the last journal entry. She figured the man's final record was the most likely to contain a useful clue as to his eventual fate.
"Listen to this..." She waited until Daniel looked up, and then she cleared her throat and read aloud:
"October 30, 1945. Met an old-timer at the saloon last night who went by DW. A couple whiskeys loosened his lips and he got to talking. With a bit of encouragement, he told me some of the local ghost stories. Of course, the one everyone knows—that widow who hung herself from the fourth story balcony of the Hermosa Inn. He threw in a piece of gossip about the lady having been murdered by the hotel manager at the time, one Sebastian Greer. Allegedly, Greer staged her suicide, but it was never proven. All rumor and speculation from decades ago. Besides, the manager in question is long since dead, having perished in a fire that consumed the basement and lobby mere months after the hotel opened. The fire was taken as a bad sign by the owners who subsequently sold the business. To this day, many still believe the hotel to be cursed or haunted—possibly both. Whatever the case, there's no denying the Hermosa Inn has been plagued by an unusual number of conflagrations in the decades since.
More interesting: DW told a tale of a lost gold mine, discovered by a miner who, naturally, took its location with him to his grave. Allegedly, and this is where it gets outlandish, the spirit of the miner guards his treasure to this very day. Manifesting as a ten-foot-tall skeleton who has a tarnished brass mining lamp suspended within his ribcage. The locals affectionately call it 'Old Skelly'.
Now, I've seen some strange and scary things in my day, from vampires impervious to sunlight to a werewolf with fleas—"
"That's ridiculous!" Victoria scowled at the journal. She pretty much dismissed the existence of "Old Skelly" out of hand as an obvious fairytale. Werewolves and vampires were one thing—perfectly plausible supernatural creatures. Animated skeletons, however, belonged to the realm of cartoons and goofy Halloween posters.
"Is it?" Daniel burst out laughing.
Victoria looked up, directing her displeasure toward him. "No self-respecting wolf would ever—"
"I'm sure he was prone to exaggeration." Chuckling, Daniel waved his hand. "Keep going."
She scanned the rest and shrugged. "There's not much more. It says the skeleton is sighted infrequently, but most often on All Hallow's Eve. North of here, around Slaughterhouse Gulch. Patrick thinks it's 'probably a waste of time but he reckons he'll check it out'."
"Maybe we should too, although, rumors of a lost gold mine and a giant skeleton aren't much to go on." Daniel glanced over at the clock. His charging cell phone also sat on the nightstand. As if on cue, it rang.
He picked it up and glanced at the display. "It's Gus."
"That was fast."
He nodded. "I'm going to take this."
"Sure." Victoria eased off the edge of the mattress and moved a few feet from the bed. She would've preferred to give him more privacy than that, but she had nowhere to go but the bathroom or the balcony. Of course, she could go stand around in the hallway, but she didn't want to and wouldn't—unless he asked.
"Hey, man. What's up?" Daniel paused, listening to whatever reply his friend offered, and then said, "Okay, great. Let me grab something to write on—"
Victoria snatched a courtesy notepad and pen, both bearing the Hermosa Inn logo, off the desktop and passed it to him.
"Thanks," Daniel said to her. He held his phone pressed between his face and shoulder and bent, poised to write. "Go ahead."
Succumbing to irresistible curiosity, Victoria edged closer to get a look. He'd written: North—State Route 89.
"Yeah, I got that. Thanks. What time?" Daniel added: 11:03 a.m.
His conversation with his buddy continued, straying into shop talk. Victoria's discomfort over eavesdropping grew in leaps and bounds. The second football came up, she assumed pacing a restless circuit about the room, looking for a diversion when a soft yellow halo caught her attention.
Lo and behold—was that a spiritual glow from the balcony? Victoria squelched an impulsive instinct to rush out to investigate. Instead, she took a deep breath, centere
d herself, and eased through the door leading out onto the terrace.
This was, Victoria presumed, Charity Briggs—the grief-stricken widow of the missing hunter, Joseph Briggs.
The ghost rested her forearms upon the railing and stood looking out. She was in her early twenties and pretty in profile. She had on a bright red cloche hat with a black feather tucked into the band. Her curly brunette hair was cut short. She wore a sleeveless summer dress: a scoop-neck and drop waist style with a pleated skirt.
To Victoria's surprise, Charity possessed both dimension and color. Often, spirits manifested only their torsos but this young woman had legs and feet, complete with cute, strappy sandals even though elegant, heeled shoes would've been better suited to her attire.
"Isn't it just like a man to bring his lover to a fancy place like this, then just ignore her to talk about sports?" The spirit spoke with a honeyed southern drawl, although Victoria lacked the regional knowledge necessary to assign her accent to a specific state.
Surprised at being addressed first and with such directness, Victoria rocked on her heels. "Ah..." She was caught off-guard and at a momentary loss for words. She recovered enough to ask, "How do you know we're lovers and not married?"
A light but sarcastic laugh came from the ghost. With a flip of her hair, she turned, revealing a face that was lovelier in full than in profile. She had a heart-shaped face and beautiful hazel eyes, bright with intelligence.
"I'm not blind. I've been watching you since you checked in," Charity said. "Any fool could see those handcuffs you're wearing are just for show. Your ring doesn't even fit. No self-respecting woman would let her husband get away with that."
Victoria grinned and twisted the two-sizes-too-big band on her finger. "Maybe we eloped."
"I don't think so." Charity smirked, obviously enjoying their repartee. "Your man is a hunter. He's got the mark." She turned further and pointed, drawing attention to the dagger-shaped tattoo on her upper arm that was an exact match for Daniel's, except a little smaller and hers was silver.
Victoria's mouth opened. Well, she hadn't seen that coming. It took her a second to recover. The spirit's lucidity and stability were exceptional, but her awareness of her surroundings? Extraordinary, and unlike anything in her experience as a Valkyrie or a priestess.
"My name is Victoria Storm. My partner in there is Daniel Barrett." She waved over her shoulder, a vague gesture toward Daniel. "You're right—he is a hunter. But I wasn't aware you were one too, Charity."
Charity's slim shoulders swung in a shrug. "In my day, women who hunted were rare."
"They still are. I'm not a hunter."
"I caught that too." She flashed a quick smile. "Oh, boy, a werewolf and a hunter shacking up—that's just the bee's knees. No offense intended, but in the 1920s, we were as likely to kill each other when our paths crossed."
"None taken. Wolves and hunters—we've been at peace for almost thirty years," Victoria explained automatically. Charity's mix of old and new slang just set her head to spinning. "Uh, my turn. No offense intended—"
"None taken!"
"But how is it you're so damn..."
"Gorgeous?" Charity beamed and struck a pose.
Victoria chuckled. "Coherent?"
"Oh." Charity dropped her arms and frowned. "I wasn't always. For decades, I haunted this hotel. Time was a blur. The outside world changed so fast but I was trapped in my bubble..."
"What happened to change things?"
"A man stayed here—in this room." Charity crossed arms and grasped her own shoulders in subconscious expression of distress. "He talked to me, and somehow he made everything better."
"Better?"
"Clearer. I could focus—for the first time since forever..." The ghost shook her head. "For the first time since I died, I could think straight."
"How... Do you know what he did?" Victoria counted herself as a stronger than average medium, and the enchantment Charity had described was well beyond her ability. Her mind baffled, trying to surmise what it might've been, but she came up empty-handed.
"No."
"How long ago was his visit?"
"Um, it's October..." Charity considered, performing the calculation. "It'll be three years come December. I recall clearly that he visited just prior to Christmas. The hotel puts up decorations, and there's always a tree in the lobby."
"Good," Victoria murmured encouragement. "What was his name?"
"He didn't tell me." Charity bit her lower lip and shook her head in a frantic motion. Her obvious distress worried Victoria. The ghost might not destabilize, but if she grew upset enough, she could still opt to simply wink out.
"That's okay. Can you tell me what he looked like?"
"No," Charity said, uncompromising in her refusal. "I can't. I won't."
"Why not?"
"He asked me not to tell anyone about him. I promised I wouldn't." Charity looked Victoria straight in the eyes. "I can tell you don't understand, but please try. He helped me, before and after I answered his questions. He wanted to help me move on—"
"So do I."
"Well, I don't want to move on." Charity crossed her arms over her chest. The spirit's aura acquired reddish hues. "I refuse to give up on Joseph."
"Whoa, it's okay." Victoria held up calming hands and chose her words with care. "I respect that. I promise. You shouldn't ever give up on the man you love."
"And I won't. I won't move on. Not until I'm reunited with my husband."
Victoria winced because the odds of Joseph still being alive were just... not good. Daniel had exaggerated the quote-unquote hundred years by quite a bit, but it had still been eighty-two years. The man was gorgeous but maybe not so good at math? So if Charity's husband had been say... Twenty in 1927? She did the calculation. Yeah, the guy must be dead or in a nursing home.
"I know my husband isn't alive," Charity said in a soft voice. "Joseph loved me—he never would've left like that. He was murdered."
"You know that for sure?"
"Yes. He's close. I can feel him. He's here—trapped within these walls. I've wandered these halls—searched every room—countless times, but I can't find him. He is here. You have to believe me."
"I believe you."
"You do?" Tears brightened Charity's eyes.
"I do, and I'm going to help you find him. I'll do everything in my power to reunite you with Joseph. I promise."
"You'd do that?" Charity searched Victoria's face and her anguish subsided.
"I would and I will." Victoria held up her hand in a pledge. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"Like what?"
"Like... Anything. Start with what you were doing here in Granite Creek."
"We were actually here on our honeymoon. When we checked in, there were dozens of long-stem red roses all over this room... Belgium chocolates on the bed and champagne on ice. Joseph was an incurable romantic." She beamed, love in her smile as she spoke of her husband.
"That sounds wonderful."
"It was. We came here chasing his dream. His fantasy was to recover a lost fortune. I knew him since we were kids, and he never stopped searching. Of course, I didn't actually expect to find anything. I was always the realist. But it made him happy, so we came to Granite Creek to search for the lost gold mine."
"Why this gold mine specifically?" Victoria had no idea exactly how many lost gold mines there must be, but she imagined the count to be higher than one.
Charity chuckled. "Joseph had an old map he found in an antique shop."
"A map could be helpful. What happened to it?"
"When we checked in, he put it in the hotel safe. I never saw it again. A few hours later, Joseph went out for smokes. I waited, but he never came back."
"Did you report him missing?"
"Yes, of course, but the coppers weren't interested. They took a report, but I could tell what they were thinking—that he'd left and I was just some stupid woman who was too naive to realize her husband had lef
t her..." Charity gulped air and tears ran down her cheeks. Ruby tones streaked her aura again.
"I'm so sorry." Victoria's heart ached for the poor woman. Compassion welled up within her. She wanted to help Charity, to offer support. It led her to do something she seldom did voluntarily. Victoria braced herself and laid a gentle hand on the other woman's shoulder. Her expectation was that the spirit's flesh would be icy. The dead always conveyed the chill of the grave. But to her shock, Charity's arm was hot.
Charity nodded and swiped at her cheek. "The morning after Joseph went missing, the hotel manager, Sebastian Greer, came by to see how I was doing. At first, I didn't think anything of it. I thought he was simply being kind, but the next morning he asked me to leave. Said he thought it would be for the best. When I refused, he demanded payment upfront. I scraped together what little money I had and it was enough to cover the bill, but Joseph had been carrying most of our funds."
"Did you call anyone?"
"Just my mother, but she was disabled."
"Mr. Greer came back, didn't he?" Victoria had a suspicion—a vision of what had happened next unfolding in her head. But she wanted to hear the story from Charity.
"The next morning," Charity said, nodding. "He demanded payment again, but I'd run out of money. He said I to pay up or get out. I refused. He left but—" Her throat worked as she swallowed. "That night he returned. I must have dozed off because I didn't hear him knock—if he did at all. Somehow, he got into the room. He must've let himself in with a master key."
"Are you okay? We can stop if this is too difficult. I can guess what happened next."
"Yes, I'm fine." With a visible effort, Charity gathered herself and then continued. "Greer was mad. In a terrible temper and he stank of booze. He was ranting and raving—calling me terrible names—and saying I had to leave. He grabbed me and dragged me out of bed. I think he only intended to force me out but I fought him. I'd been trained to defend myself. I hurt him, but he was so much stronger than me. He wrapped his hands around my throat..."