by T. Strange
Harlan shrugged and unsnapped his seatbelt. C is for Cataclysm. One that would swallow this guy up, or maybe just Harlan. Either way was fine with him. “Sure.”
“Nine a.m. Tomorrow. Here.”
Biting back a sarcastic, “Yes, sir!” Harlan just nodded, opened the car door wider and slid out.
Great, more of this to look forward to tomorrow. At least the ghost part had been mercifully easy. It was the human part that had sucked. Harlan wondered how long he had to do this before he could retire and collect a pension, tried not to think about the statistics—police mediums tended to die young, killed either by ghosts or the toll of years of expending psychic energy.
At least then he wouldn’t have to work with C. Hamilton for long.
C is for Cranky. No, that one was too obvious.
Chapter Five
Harlan came to an abrupt halt, almost falling down the narrow concrete stairs. Luckily, there was no one behind him or they would have bumped into him. With his luck, they’d both fall and break their necks—or at least he would.
The upstairs area was a fairly normal bar—tables, chairs, tastefully lit drinks on display—but down here…
Officer Hamilton smirked up at him from the bottom of the steps, and two things were immediately obvious to Harlan—the man had known what kind of place the next ghost was haunting and he’d let Harlan walk into it blind, just to laugh at his reaction.
Take a picture. It lasts longer, asshole, Harlan thought, mouthing the last word silently when Hamilton turned away in response to someone’s question. Asshole. The word felt good on his lips, sculpting his tongue, even if he couldn’t give it volume.
“Hurry the fuck up!”
Part of Harlan, a very large part, wanted to turn and run back through the heavy, non-descript door at the top of the stairs, but he also didn’t want to give Officer Fuckface the satisfaction. As slowly and with as much dignity as he could manage, considering that he probably looked like he’d just seen a fucking yeti shamble past him, Harlan descended the rest of the stairs.
The room was deceptively spacious, stretching back almost the full length of the building, though its contents distracted him from looking very far ahead. It was broken up into little areas, marked out with white lines on the black-tiled floor. In each area was a…device, for lack of a better word. No two areas had the same contraption, but they all bristled with straps, chains and shiny hardware, clearly designed to keep people in place.
The place looked like a bizarre mishmash of a medieval torture dungeon and a trendy gym. It was spotlessly clean, with a spray bottle next to each piece of equipment. There were no screams resounding off the matte-black walls, though that might simply have been because the equipment wasn’t currently in use. The room was lit by overhead fluorescents, and Harlan could see smaller pot lights above each station, presumably for mood lighting when the room was used for its intended purpose, rather than dispelling ghosts. What that purpose might be—or if he even wanted to find out—Harlan wasn’t certain.
It smelled like a combination dungeon-gym, as well—sweat, leather and metal, overlaid with the scent of cleaner. It also, unlike either of those locations, smelled like sex.
Before he could think too deeply about why his dick was getting hard at the same time as his balls tried to crawl back up into his abdomen for safety, Hamilton waved him over, sharply.
“Do your thing. Let’s get out of this freak show.” He laughed. “Unless you like it here.”
Part of him…did, and he wasn’t going to think about that. At least not right now.
Harlan’s face grew hot. Is Hamilton telepathic? Does he know what I was just thinking? Or maybe, Occam’s Razor, he’d simply noticed Harlan’s growing erection. Fuck.
He didn’t see any ghosts from where he stood, meaning he had to go deeper into the room. He occasionally had to turn sideways to avoid brushing the bizarre equipment. Cleaning spray or not, he didn’t want to touch any of it.
“Nothing here will bite. Well, unless you ask real nice.”
Harlan jumped, startled by the voice. His eyes had been mostly closed, hands in front of him as he sought the elusive ghost. There had to be one here, somewhere. There had to be, or he wouldn’t have been called here. He didn’t think even Officer Hamilton was quite enough of an asshole to bring him here just for shock value, but maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part.
“Sorry?” he managed, once his heart had slowed enough for speech.
“Sorry I scared you! I’m Charles. Charles Moore.” The stranger looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with rich brown eyes and short black hair with a few hints of silver. His skin was a few shades darker than Harlan’s. He was quite a bit shorter than Harlan was, but wider, and his presence made him seem to take up more room. His arms were muscular and well-defined. He was wearing a full-length apron over a black T-shirt and jeans, and holding a clipboard. He was probably the bartender from upstairs, called down to let the police in.
Harlan took a moment to reply, having to mentally shift from dealing with the dead to dealing with the living. “Harlan,” he said, softly, taking the man’s hand, glancing down and to the side rather than meeting Charles’ eyes while they shook, pulling away as soon as he could.
“It’s nice to meet you, Harlan. You looked kind of nervous, which is why I came over to talk to you. I hope you don’t mind. I hope I’m not distracting you! I’m not sure how…this”—he waved his hands at the empty air between Harlan and Officer Hamilton—“works. Nobody’s ever died here before. And I know what you must be thinking, but the guy who died—whose ghost is haunting the place—wasn’t playing. He was from the delivery company, dropping off a new St. Andrew’s cross.” He pointed with one thumb over his shoulder, indicating one of the pieces of equipment—two planks forming an X, covered in black leather padding, and, of course, the ubiquitous chains, straps and other assorted hardware.
“He died of a heart attack. He’d never even been here before. Everything that happens here is between consenting adults. No one is ever forced into doing something against their will.” Charles laughed, softly. “Sorry. I tend to get a little carried away, talking about safety. I just wanted you to know that this wasn’t some kind of grisly sex-dungeon murder.” Charles scanned Harlan’s face, then nodded. “I’ll let you finish. Out of curiosity—have you seen anything…interesting…yet?”
Lots. It took Harlan a moment to realize that, while the bondage gear was interesting to him, Charles saw it every day. “A ghost?”
Charles nodded.
Harlan shook his head. “No, nothing.” Not even the sparkle that meant a ghost was present but not currently visible.
Charles shrugged. “Well, someone dies in a place like this and rumours get started. Someone sees a shadow they can’t explain, hears something during the day when the place is empty…and you’ve got a ghost. Right?”
Now it was Harlan’s turn to shrug. “I guess,” he replied, not sure what else to say, what he was expected to say.
Charles laughed. “I hope that’s all this is, anyways. All these days I’ve been shut down are killing me.”
That caught Harlan’s attention. “You own this…place?” He wasn’t sure what to call it—a dungeon, a house of ill repute? If it had a name, Charles hadn’t said it, and Harlan hadn’t seen it outside. There had been nothing to indicate that the building was anything but an old, brick residence, with nothing on or over the door but the building’s number.
“Yep. It’s all mine. Everything the light touches.” Grinning, Charles spread his arms, taking in the room and all the unsettling—and unsettlingly arousing—furniture.
“That’s…nice.” ‘That’s nice?’ What the fuck?
Hamilton whistled for him, like he was a dog, clapping his hands a moment later. “We’re not fucking paying you to flirt. Find the ghost, get rid of it and let’s go.” He tapped his wrist with a meaningful look at Harlan, though he wasn’t wearing a watch.
Not, however, before he noticed Charles frowning at Hamilton.
A few minutes later, Harlan shook his head, shoulders drawing together when both men’s attention fell on him. “There’s no ghost,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“What?”
Clearing his throat, Harlan repeated, “There’s no ghost here. Never has been, as far as I can tell.”
Hamilton had been lounging against the wall next to the stairs…as far from the dungeon equipment as he could be, letting Harlan brave the labyrinth of metal and leather on his own. Now he looked up, scowling. “Well, look again. We got a call about this place, and one of the coroner’s guys says she saw a ghost, and I trust her word a hell of a lot more than I trust yours.”
Harlan’s breathing sped up, dangerously fast. He needed get out of here, now, caught between Hamilton’s glare and Charles’ look of concern. He brushed past Officer Hamilton and stumbled up the stairs, past the bar, through the grey-steel door, out into the fresh air. Well, as fresh as it could be in an alley lined with Dumpsters and grease bins. Even the smell of rancid fat was preferable to the stink of leather, sex and sweat right now, and there were no people here, looking at him expectantly or otherwise. Not yet, anyway. He doubted he’d be left alone for long.
Right on cue, the door banged open behind him. “You did not just walk out on me!” Officer Hamilton growled, his voice mere decibels away from shouting.
Guiltily pulling his thumbnail from his mouth, Harlan hunched his shoulders, kept his head down and started walking back to the parked police cruiser. Hamilton could shoot him or handcuff him if he wanted, but Harlan wasn’t going back down there of his own free will, especially when there was no ghost for him to deal with.
A pause, an exasperated sigh, then the sound of Hamilton’s heavy boots behind him, the beep-click of the car being unlocked.
Indulging himself in a brief, triumphant smile, Harlan climbed into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt with a satisfying click.
* * * *
Harlan was greeted by a surly, “What the fuck?” when he got into the police cruiser the next morning at exactly eight-fifty-eight and four seconds.
A thousand snarky comments that would never be spoken aloud crossed Harlan’s mind. Was Tim Horton’s out of your favorite donut? Did you break your handcuffs? He stayed silent, hoping ‘the fuck’ had nothing to do with him.
“Dispatch got a call last night.”
Okay. That seemed like a normal occurrence.
“Someone saw a ghost.”
Again, not that unusual, not to mention their combined jobs. No matter how quickly Harlan and other police mediums worked, there were too few of them to keep up with the rate of people dying.
“At the place where, yesterday, you told me there was no fucking ghost.”
Fuck. It was about him. Harlan gulped, his breathing ragged, feeling the blood rush away from his head. He felt faint and nauseous. “I… I…”
“‘I, I,’” Hamilton mocked, sneering. “I got torn a new one about this, and shit flows downstream, so I’m passing it on to you.” He reached out, his blunt-tipped finger stopping just short of touching Harlan’s chest.
Hamilton had never actually touched him, Harlan realized. Huh. He wondered if the cop was a little afraid of him—not that he had any reason to be, but fear was anything but reasonable. Lots of people had been afraid of Harlan’s abilities, including his own parents. He was used to it.
He was still trying to decide if what Hamilton had said was a mixed metaphor or just a horrible mental image when Hamilton pulled away from the curb, tires squealing. Then all of Harlan’s concentration was devoted to holding down his breakfast.
They drove in uncomfortable silence, Harlan’s mind racing. There hadn’t been a ghost in that…dungeon. There hadn’t. There was no way anyone had seen a ghost there unless one had arrived in the last twenty-four hours, which was extremely unlikely. Contrary to popular belief, ghosts could roam from where they’d died or been buried, but they did tend to be homebodies. If a second person had died there in as many days, that was troubling.
Fuck. Harlan forced himself to slow his breathing.
In… This wasn’t his fuck-up.
Out… It was like Charles had said, a shadow. A mouse. Whatever.
In… Not a ghost.
Out… He’d done nothing wrong. There was nothing wrong with him. He’d seen the lobby ghost this morning on his way out.
In… Hadn’t he?
Out… Yes, he had. Someone had walked right through her.
In, slow.
Out, slower.
Hamilton lunged at him and Harlan cowered in his seat, afraid the cop was going to hit him, but the man only flung his door open, violently.
Glad to get away from Hamilton, Harlan undid his seatbelt and slid out of the car.
There was a blank, metal security door leading into the bar slash dungeon. Its name was Rattling Chains. He’d looked it up online, only so he knew what to call it. That, and for no other reason.
The door was locked. He knocked, tentatively at first, then harder when no one answered.
Charles opened the door, holding it wide for Harlan with a grin. “C’mon in. The others are downstairs already.”
Others? Oh God. What am I about to walk in to? He followed Charles down the stairs reluctantly. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disturbed to see a woman in a tan trench coat wearing a police badge. Did that mean something official was going on, or something really kinky? Both her and the woman beside her were still dressed, at least.
The woman wearing the badge frowned at them when they entered, pressing a finger to her lips. Both Charles and Harlan nodded, silently watching. Harlan still didn’t know what they were watching. Both women were just standing there. Maybe they hadn’t quite started yet?
He heard the sound of heavy boots on the stairs and did his best not to roll his eyes or groan when Hamilton stepped into view. He stopped close to Harlan, closer than Harlan would’ve liked. “They had to call in another team over this,” he hiss-whispered. “A more experienced team that’s got better things to do than fuck around with beginner-level ghosts like this!”
“Quiet, please,” the woman in the trench coat murmured, shooting a disapproving look at both of them before turning back to the shorter woman in front of her and giving her an encouraging nod.
Oh! The willowy woman staring into space must be a medium, the plainclothes officer her escort.
Harlan frowned. Why couldn’t he have gotten paired up with someone helpful and supportive, a partner, like those two women? The officer had done the speaking for the duo, dealing with the mundane while letting her partner concentrate on the otherworldly.
Instead, he’d gotten stuck with Officer Sourpuss.
The other psychic’s eyes unfocused. Her expression was somehow both dreamy and direct at the same time. She looked ridiculous, and Harlan wondered if that was how he looked when communing with the dead. He hoped not.
Her arms drifted up and out, trailing through the air as though it were water. “He’s here,” she said, the first words Harlan had heard her speak. She pointed very deliberately into an alcove in one of the corners closest to the door. There were curtains that could be drawn across it, but they were currently open. It had a small table, two chairs and piles of soft cushions and neatly folded blankets. It looked…cozy. If Harlan had to be a ghost—and he sincerely hoped he never became one—it looked like a nice place to haunt.
The alcove was empty. Harlan couldn’t see so much as the slightest distortion, any hint of the sparkle that usually let him know a ghost was nearby. He wanted to believe the police medium was lying for some inexplicable reason, but that explanation made less sense than the obvious. Occam’s Razor. Harlan, for whatever rea
son and however temporarily, could no longer sense ghosts.
The woman began quietly questioning the ghost, while her partner stayed close and supervised, occasionally taking notes. Harlan kept his distance.
Hamilton rounded on Harlan, so angry his words burned where they hit, as though he were spitting sparks on Harlan’s skin. “What. The. Fuck.”
Harlan recoiled, glancing around the room for help, support. He briefly considered approaching the other officer, but all her attention was on the woman speaking to the ghost. The capable psychic, the one who could see and speak to ghosts all the time. When she was supposed to—required to—not just at the worst possible moments. Someone who wasn’t fucking useless. For all the mental name-calling Harlan had thrown Hamilton’s way, the cop had been right about him from the beginning.
Charles frowned, looking like he might speak up, but Hamilton cut him off with a curt motion of his hand.
Hamilton grabbed Harlan’s arm and hauled him out of the dungeon, past the empty, darkened bar and into the alley, the smell of leather and sex changing into alcohol and sweat, then to rotting garbage.
Harlan didn’t resist, blinking in the sudden glare of sunlight that hit him directly in the eyes.
“Go home. Take a fucking… I don’t know! Eat a mushroom. Drink some tea. Cool your…chakras! Do whatever the fuck it takes.” Throwing his hands up in disgust, Hamilton stalked off down the alley toward the police cruiser, kicking anything small and loose he encountered and muttering under his breath.
Halfway to the street he turned, shooting Harlan an exasperated look when he saw he hadn’t moved. “Well? You coming?”
That interaction had been almost…friendly. Harlan did an awkward half-trot to catch up, smiling just a little once Hamilton had turned his back. Even the too-loud country music and the nostril-assailing air freshener scent couldn’t wipe it off his face.