Ghost Avenger

by Serena Akeroyd

  He heard me clearly, but it didn’t make him reply without being prompted.

  “God, I hate working with kids,” Kenna grumbles.

  “I’m not a child,” Charles immediately snaps.

  “No? Well, stop acting like one.”

  Biting my lip at Kenna’s snark, because I appreciate it far too much, I murmur, “Come on, Charles. Tell me.”

  “A car crash,” comes the stiff retort.

  I relay that to the woman, and she lets out a long breath. “What does he look like?”

  I know she’s still trying to test me, but she isn’t exactly doing a good job of it. I mean, I really don’t know who she is, but if I were a con artist, I could have figured out a way of discovering her identity. Then, I could have read up on her past, her background, and learned all this stuff by heart.

  As it is, she should ask me the most obscure shit. Not something I could read in the papers if she wants to make sure she’s not dealing with a charlatan.

  Yeah, I have to put up with these tests a lot.

  I get it. There are some real bastards out there, trying to take advantage of hurting people who have either recently lost a loved one or simply can’t get over a death. Their very vulnerability makes them a target, which pisses me off more than I can say. Still, it doesn’t mean these tests aren’t boring and, without meaning to be, offensive.

  Her question is hard for me to answer because colors don’t cross the line between light and dark. The ghosts that appear to me are sepia.

  Rather than direct the question at the boy, because I get the feeling he’d sabotage me in an instant, I turn to Kenna. She purses her lips and says, “Blond, brown eyed. Either died in or loved wearing a green cable knit sweater with those turtles that were popular when you were a kid, Jayce.”

  I cough to hide my amusement. “Yeah, I recognized the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. But what about the rest?”

  “Blue jeans.”

  “Those kicks are nice.” David eyes the high tops the brat’s wearing with a covetous eye.

  “Nothing really stands out,” Kenna asserts.

  “Save for the fact a kid with wealth like this is wearing jeans and a cartoon character sweater,” David points out.

  “Sue me,” Charles snaps, deciding to take part in this conversation. “I was eight years old.”

  Sensing an argument about to start, when David squints his eyes at the kid—who really is no longer a child but looks like one, I blurt out, “Charles was eight when he died. Ghosts pass on either in the clothes they died in or a favored outfit. It’s just something they do,” I attempt to clarify the impossible. “What Charles is wearing now is either one of those. He was blond, had brown eyes…” I peer through the gloom at the misty apparition sharing the limo with me. “I think he had a birthmark too, on the left side of his face. Either that or a scar.” At that, the woman lets out another startled gasp, but I ignore her and continue, “He’s wearing a sweater with Donatello from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on it and jeans.”

  “How did you know about the scar?” she practically exhales. Once again, the air throbs with her excitement but also, her sorrow. At the scar? How it happened? Or just in general?

  The woman’s obviously one cookie short a jar cookies, and rich enough, that it doesn’t matter at all.

  “I don’t know about the scar. Not about how it happened anyway.” I peer again, but the scar, in all honesty, was just something I figured would make her realize I was the real deal. It’s only slight. Not present enough to be ugly, but I was looking for it. It slashes the left side of his jaw, from ear to chin. It must have been very faint when he was alive. “I just know that I can see it.” I trace its marking on my own jaw.

  “He’s really here, isn’t he? And you can really see him? My God,” she whispers, then clicks a button. Suddenly, lights pop on, and I blink, the light startling my battered eyes. As I get accustomed to the brightness, scowling as I go, I watch the woman opposite duck out of the coat’s neckline, letting the fur hang like a regular coat does. She slips off the shades, and then, I’m the one left astonished.

  Holy Mother of God, it’s Marla Davison.

  Chapter Two

  Drake

  “Who’s the new lady, Drake?”

  I frown at my sister-in-law. Jackie was a good wife to my brother, but not a great mom to my nephew, David. Because of the former, I give her the respect due to her, because of the latter, I wish I didn’t have to.

  Thanks to her persistent belief that David was the sort of kid who would overdose, the cops stopped investigating his death. And David had died thanks to a jealous shit from school doping his drink at a party out of spite because my nephew, my brilliant boy, was smarter than him, smart enough to snatch a prestigious scholarship out of the bastard’s hands.

  I only know this because of the new lady Jackie is talking about.

  Jayce sees ghosts. Not only that, she collects them, and David is one of her entourage, as she calls the ghosts in her custody.

  She found David, brought him into her circle and helped expose Nate Cambright as the murderer he is in a séance.

  Not that it got us very far.

  Whispers in backrooms don’t do much in the grand scheme of things. It’s certainly not as satisfying as seeing the bastard behind bars, but the Cambright family is far too rich and far too powerful for that to happen. As a result, I’ve had to settle for destroying Nate’s ‘good’ name in the hope it will damage his reputation in the future.

  A bitter desire but a desire nonetheless.

  Jackie clears her throat in a bid to gain my attention once more. She forced her way into my office, and Mrs. Wallovitch, my PA, is too soft for her own good where Jackie is concerned. A few crocodile tears, and the usually hardy and strictly disciplined Pole, is like putty in my sister-in-law’s hands.

  It’s a shame because if I never saw Jackie again, it would be a day too soon.

  “How do you know I’m dating anyone?” I ask her, a faint sneer to my voice.

  I’ve long since known that Jackie has, what can only be called, a crush on me. She had it when she married my brother, and had it through the duration of their marriage and then, his death.

  She’s a beautiful woman, in her own way. Cut glass cheeks that turn rosy red with embarrassment, hair like coal, and plump lips, which would beckon any man into temptation. She’s like Snow White, only, I always preferred Cinderella.

  “Eloise said she saw you with a woman at the National History Museum.”

  There’s a faint hint of accusation to her words, and it riles me up more than I’d like. Since when did she have a say in what I do or who I see?

  I wriggle my neck in an attempt to shuffle the tension away, but it doesn’t work. “Who’s Eloise?” I ask, rather than snap at her.

  “Just a friend from work,” she dismisses with a casual wave of her hand.

  I blink at her in astonishment. A friend from work knows what I look like? Enough to recognize me in a museum, of all places, and to pass on the gossip to a colleague?

  Yeah, something doesn’t smell too good in this office.

  Rather than declare bullshit, which is what she’s spouting, I let out a sigh. “What does it matter, Jackie?”

  She picks at some imaginary lint on her jacket sleeve. “I was just curious, that’s all.” Her smile is over bright. “You’re family, Drake. I like to make sure you’re okay.” It’s more a case of her checking to see if I’m still single.

  “I’m fine. How’s Robin?” Robin’s my niece. We’re not very close. Like David, she’s an insular child, but not a single attempt of mine to bring her out of herself has worked so far.

  I’m ashamed to admit, after David’s death, I’ve stopped trying.

  I make a mental note to call her later when Jackie replies, “She’s doing well at school.”

  That was all that mattered to Jackie. Always was and will be. I shake my head at her. “I meant, how’s she coping without David
?”

  “Oh,” Jackie frowns then airily says, “They never got along much anyway, so I doubt she misses him too badly.”

  Feeling my jaw drop at her callousness, I’m hard pressed not to kick her out just to get her away from me. Instead, I turn my attention to my computer screen and murmur, “I have an appointment in five minutes, Jackie.”

  My pointed remark sails overhead. “I’ll stay with you until then,” she tells me with a warm, and I’ll admit, engaging smile. “I don’t often get a late lunch, so I thought I’d spend it with you.”

  Lips tightening, I shake my head. “It’s a difficult patient. I need to read up on their notes.”

  “I don’t know how you stand talking to all these crazy people,” she retorts, gathering her things together with a sniff—finally getting the hint.

  “They’re not crazy,” I tell her, like I’ve told her a thousand times before.

  “Well, disturbed then. Up there.” She taps her forehead then reaches for her gloves. The way she puts the leather on, it’s like something from Gone with the Wind. They’re elbow length and a deep black.

  The notion that they’re what a Dominatrix would wear has me hiding a grin.

  I’ve had a few Dominants and Dominatrices in my care. Contrary to popular belief, they might be sadomasochists, but they’re a damn sight warmer than the woman standing before me.

  Still reeling from the fact she thinks her daughter is A-Okay with her brother’s death because she didn’t like him anyway, I get to my feet and shepherd her along. She doesn’t like it. Her cheeks pinch in response, and her eyes narrow at my lack of reply to her uncouth and uneducated statement.

  My patients aren’t disturbed, dammit, so I have nothing to say to her. Silence is all she deserves.

  She sighs, and at the door, says, “You must come over for Sunday brunch some time. It would be lovely to see you. Robin does miss you.”

  If she didn’t miss her dead brother, she wouldn’t miss her uncle.

  The uncharitable thought has me hiding a wince. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m busy on the weekends now.”

  “With this new lady friend of yours?” she pounces on my remark, like a spider in for the kill. The fly is within her web, or so she thinks.

  I tilt my head to the side, neither confirming nor denying her question. “I haven’t spoken to Robin in too long. Tell her I’ll be in touch.”

  Grumpily, she nods, steps out of my office—Thank God!—then says, “Take care of yourself, Drake.”

  “You too, Jackie.” I close the door before she can say anything else, or worse, lean in for a kiss, then press my back to the wall, relieved to be away from her and out of her clutches.

  Did Robin really not miss David?

  That wasn’t normal, surely?

  Concerned, I eye the Grandfather clock on the opposite wall and recognize it’s too early to call her. She’ll still be at school. It’s also too soon to call Jayce.

  She wasn’t even sure where she was going when I dropped her off at the airport, just knew that a private airplane was taking her north, so I don’t know if she’s in the air or not. She promised to call me the minute she could, though. Let me know where she is so I wouldn’t worry.

  Since David’s death, I’ve become a bit of a worrywart. Jayce, luckily enough, seems to find it endearing. I think that’s because people, real ones not of the ghostly variety, haven’t cared about her in a long while.

  My concern for her is a novelty in her eyes. I hope she doesn’t tire of it too soon, because it’s not something I can control.

  It’s not obsessive. Or paranoid. But I have a real need to know if she’s safe.

  It’s her safety that’s paramount. Not the location. Not her companions.

  We’ve been dating for a month or two now, and I’ll admit to taking it slow. I’m not sure if it’s for her benefit or mine. I haven’t had sex in so long I’m relieved the equipment still works, but I don’t want to rush things.

  Since David’s death, my life has been like a whirlpool. Jayce seems to have been the tonic that brought that mad vortex of bubbling emotions to a halt, but I don’t want to ruin things. Sex ruins things. Well, it does when you rush it. How many times have I heard my female patients moaning about their partners?

  Sex on the brain, that’s all men think about. Well, not you, Dr. Edwins. Sorry.

  It’s just the sex they care about. I’m a walking pussy.

  I’m sick of being used for sex. I’m a woman. I have needs. Why can’t they treat me like a human being? Is that so hard? Am I so hard to love?

  I’ve heard it all so many times in a variety of formats, and Jayce feels like a keeper so although I want her, badly, I refuse to wreck things by behaving like a man.

  The time will come when it comes, and after yesterday’s date, that time might be sooner than I predicted.

  At the museum, the one where Eloise spotted us, we’d walked hand in hand for a while, checking out the newest exhibitions. As we’d wandered through the display on the Arctic, she’d separated our hands and shoved the one closest to me in the back pocket of my jeans. Taking the cue from her, I’d slipped my arm behind her back and pulled her close.

  She kissed me after I walked her home, and the looks she shot my way were encouraging.

  I could have probably taken things closer last night. Maybe I should have. I know my body wanted too. Jesus did it. But... and it’s a big but...

  David’s in the apartment.

  I cringe at the thought of my nephew popping up when we’re having sex.

  I wouldn’t know if he was, but Jayce would, and the last thing I want is him seeing it. Us. Me. Mid sex.

  I shudder and wish David could travel a bit further afield than he’s currently able. When he’d died, he’d woken up in an old bookshop. According to Jayce, new ghosts tended to frequent forgotten, sorrowful, worn down areas. David had gone there, others went to old subway stations. To each to their own.

  To get him from the bookshop to her apartment, she’d done this weird blood bond thing. Cutting herself, she’d pressed the bleeding cut to the air—David’s forehead, according to her—and that was that. The two of them were bound now and would continue to be so until a few more months had passed and the bond started to wear off.

  I can’t hold off until that happens. No matter how much of a gentleman I am, I’m still a guy. And I want her. Badly. Enough to wait for her to be ready, but with an urgency I haven’t felt since I was a teenager.

  It’s just a shame the teenager I lost last year could be a silent witness to my taking Jayce for the first time.

  Christ, there’s a thought I never figured would cross my mind.

  Feeling a nervous sweat gather at my temples, I wipe one side then the other with my shirt sleeve. Looking at the clock again, I see my patient is close to arriving so quickly tidy up.

  My office is simple. A rather grandiose desk, along traditional lines but in a modern teak, a low-slung couch, which curves to a patient’s spine, an elegant grandfather clock in matching teak, and a leather desk chair for my comfort.

  The only other adornments are my degrees and certification on the wall in ornate and gilt-edged frames.

  It’s important to me that this is a restful, peaceful space for my clients. Warm enough to entice them to talk, relaxed enough to let them feel at ease, but with a faint edge of style so that even the snobbiest—and there are many—feel they’re getting their money’s worth.

  The latter is ridiculous, but hell, it’s Manhattan. Image counts for everything, which is why half of my patients are here in the first place.

  Grunting at the thought, I move toward my desk and pick up some notes from my last patient. Stowing them in my desk drawer to file away later, I notice a small pillbox at the edge of the desk and feel like kicking myself.

  Why the fuck didn’t I check earlier to make sure she hadn’t left anything?

  The Black Widow wins again. Dammit.

  Before my black mood
can turn stormy at the prospect of having to see my sister-in-law soon, my cell phone rings. Seeing Jayce’s ID, I shake off my mood because it wouldn’t be fair to take my anger out on her, and answer with, “Hey there!”

  Well, I wouldn’t win an award for witty greetings, but hell, at least I don’t sound grumpy. I feel like it’s time to call her endearments, but something always stops me. She’s an unusual woman, and I don’t want to mess up. Would she dislike it if I called her sweetheart? I’m not sure, but I’m aware my indecision would very likely be unattractive to her.

  Women are unique in that they want a man to take charge, but can be pissed off about him doing that. The desires they have are oxymoronic, and that’s a fact I’ve always known, but with Jayce I’ve never wanted to fuck up less than now.

  “Hey Drake!” her own greeting bubbles down the line, where mine had been as flat as a pancake in comparison.

  She’s excited? I cock my brows in surprise. She’d viewed the whole mystery client thing with apathy yesterday. Although, from what I’ve seen so far, that’s how she views most things.

  Intrigued, I murmur, “You sound giddy?” There’s a question to my statement because I’m not sure if she’s giddy, high, or excited. The vibes she’s sending off are unusual, ones I haven’t come across since I’ve come to know her.

  I’ve seen her childish excitement when I took her for the best pie on the island—she agreed, even though she’s been a deep-dish fan from childhood. Sacrilege. I’ve seen her focused interest when we were at the museum and heading toward the mummies. And before we kiss, there’s always a fizz about her. A buoyancy. That’s the only way I can describe it, and it’s a piss poor way at that.

  She’s a fine, sparkling wine. Not a cava or a prosecco, but champagne.

  I smile at the analogy then smile harder when she gushes, “That’s because I am. Oh, shut up, Kenna,” she breaks off, but I’m already used to her talking to the ghosts in her coterie, so it doesn’t come as a surprise for her to suddenly start speaking to someone else. “I don’t care if it’s not decent to be excited. The woman’s an urban legend for Christ’s sake.”