Ghost Avenger

by Serena Akeroyd

  Hell, now I’m intrigued!

  “You’ve finally met your client, have you?” I ask, taking a seat in my desk chair and swinging around to look out the window. It’s a nice view. Not the greatest. I’d have preferred something like Jayce’s apartment, a view over Central Park—but beggars can’t be choosers. Madison Avenue is what it is, and truth be told, I just wish I had more opportunity to look out onto the world rather than into my office.

  “Yeah,” she affirms. “At last. She was waiting for me when I landed.”

  “Go on then,” I murmur with another smile, amused by her effervescence. Jayce has been a breath of fresh air to me since David died, and hearing her like this just reminds me of that. “Who is she?”

  She sucks in a breath. “Marla Davison.”

  My mouth drops open, and in tandem, my intercom buzzes. Shit, my next client is here.

  “Marla Davison?” I repeat, stunned and immediately understand why Jayce is so damn excited. She adores the old classics, and Marla Davison’s mother was in some of the biggest and the best. “But I thought she was in seclusion. Or whatever it is when you go hippy on some ranch in the middle of nowhere.” That was one of the many rumors about where Marla had taken to hiding, alongside being locked up in a harem, and sailing around the seven seas like Long John Silver. The ranch idea always seemed more rational to me.

  Jayce snorts. “I wouldn’t exactly call this place ‘hippy.’ Not if you consider brand new Learjets, limos, and thirty-bedroom mansions roughing it.”

  “Holy crap,” I mumble, astonished because Jayce has actually been dealing with the Marla Davison, for Christ’s sake! “What does she want?”

  “That’s just it, Drake. Can you believe it? She had a son who died.”

  “A son? Really? I never heard anything about that in the papers.”

  “No. His father was some Saudi billionaire or something. She had the boy over there, and they kept him a secret for security reasons. His protection, I guess. Not that it worked.”

  “Christ, that’s sad.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why Kenna is bitching at me. I’m not excited, per se. But hell, it’s Marla Davison. How can I not be star struck?”

  “Trust me, I understand.” I blow out a breath, then wince when my intercom buzzes again. “I have to go. My next patient is here.”

  “Damn. I was hoping to talk to you longer.”

  I know. I wish I could too. I don’t say that though. Instead, I murmur, “Call me later. My last patient is at seven.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” she murmurs, a teasing note to her tone. “Until later.”

  When she cuts the call, I stare at my phone, shaking my head. This is the oddest courtship I’ve ever undergone, and that’s the only way I can describe it—courtship. We’re not dating, that’s too modern. This is traditional. More formal.

  We’re both taking it slow. We’ve both been hurt and are avoiding future pain by taking this at a logical pace...but I think, no, I know the time for being rational has passed.

  It’s a shame I’ve just figured that out when she’s flown, to only God knows where, on one of her cases.

  Chapter Three

  Jayce

  “Jayce, stop mooning over Drake, and get your butt over here.”

  Rolling my eyes at Kenna, I plug in my cell to charge and do as she bids.

  She’s sitting primly on a neat sofa in the quarters Marla gave me, as out of place in her flapper gear as I am in my jeans and blousy shirt. David and Casper are out of place too. No one fits here. For all its luxury, this isn’t a home. I can see why Marla isn’t happy; let’s put it that way.

  It’s a gilded cage.

  A prison. Just a pretty one to stop the sole inmate from feeling too trapped.

  Oh, don’t get me wrong. She has more perks than the average prisoner. Like I told Drake, a limo and a Learjet aren’t exactly toys. Though they might as well be for all Marla cares.

  “Nice digs, right?” David asks, grinning widely at me as he falls back on the sofa. The cushions aren’t disturbed by his weight, but he sprawls across the loveseat like any good teenager would.

  “Yeah. Nice isn’t the word,” I tell him, taking a chance to peer around again.

  I mean, I’m not poor. I have a penthouse overlooking Central Park, for Christ’s sake. I could pretty much afford to buy whatever I wanted. If I couldn’t afford it, I could take on more cases.

  I mean, they’re piling up. I only take the ones that interest me, though. Not because I’m a selfish bitch, not because I’m avaricious and only in this game for the money, but because each case is torture for me.

  I see the worst of people. Learn what monsters humans can be. I deal with death. Sorrow. Heartbreak. They’re my stock in trade.

  Is it any wonder I can only handle so much?

  That’s a moot point. As I was saying, I could afford to have digs like this—not as big, mind you, and the Learjet, yeah, that’s a no no—but as pretty as this, yeah. But I wouldn’t want it. This place is not comfortable. It’s like a doll’s house. An expensive one. My mother would love it here, which automatically adds to my unease.

  Growing up with a Catholic mother, obsessed with the fact her daughter was possessed by demons, makes me automatically shy away from anything that reminds me of her. This neat-as-a-pin room would make my OCD mother purr in satisfaction.

  I remember a time when she snarled at me, she had to be clean, that we had to be, to keep the devil away from us. She’d come at me with a sponge doused in bleach, intent on cleaning me, body and soul. Thankfully, my dad had come home early, and had put a stop to that.

  Shuddering at the memory, I look at the space around me. Any pleasure or joy I find at being in such pretty, if sterile, rooms disappears.

  Two sofas, with a rattan frame, sit at right angles to one another. They have high, straight backs. There are plenty of cream cushions atop them, but only a ghost like David would find them cozy. They overlook a fireplace with an iron grate. There’s no mantelpiece though, which looks odd. Or at least, every fireplace I’ve seen always has a mantelpiece with dust collectors for ornaments on top of them. Beside it, there’s a stone occasional table with a cream lamp perched upon it. Behind the sofas, there’s a bureau. Where the loveseats have a bit of a modern vibe to them, the desk is pure nineteenth century. It’s broad and long with a tall back and inbuilt shelves. On the highest shelf, there’s a lamp with a silver pot-bellied vase. Before it, there’s a modern desk chair. A spindly thing, half black pine and half natural pine. Low-backed, it looks uncomfortable.

  There’s no TV, which is a major bummer.

  I do like my soaps, God help me. I like the melodrama. Soaps, for the trite bullshit they spout, make my life feel normal, and I wonder if Marla would mind getting some of her staff to bring one to the room. She said I could ask for whatever I wanted—a TV isn’t that big a request, is it?

  In the right angle of the sofas, there’s a coffee table. It’s low and square, a heavy dark brown that matches the cherry desk. I take a seat on there because all my ghosts are on the loveseat and it’s considered rude to sit through them.

  “What’s the first step?” I ask Kenna, who, unlike David, is perched on the edge of the sofa. Spine erect, knees pinned together, one calf straight and the other ankle pinned behind it with her hands primly set atop her lap… she couldn’t look more archaic if she tried. But then, I can sense her unease, an unease I share, and not just because this place makes me think of my mother.

  Maybe because we’re used to being in other people’s homes, we can sense the vibe the men can’t. Casper rarely comes with me anywhere—I’m not even sure why he tagged along this time. David is too new to know anything about the strange world he inhabits now, and we’re stuck together until the bond starts to break down and we can move further and further apart.

  What a great day that will be.

  That aside, I think I’m onto something. There’s no real reason Kenna and I sh
ould be feeling so uncomfortable, and yet, we are.

  “I’m not sure,” Kenna murmurs, for once not being the smart-ass I know her to be. She lifts her hands only to let them fall. “Where to begin?”

  My eyes widen at that. “What? Are you kidding me?” she always has a plan. To say I’m stunned is an understatement. I usually just do as I’m told.

  She shakes her head. “No. I don’t like it here, Jayce.”

  “I know. It’s beautiful, but I don’t either. We won’t be here for long though, Kenna. Just long enough to help Marla.”

  She lets out a low hiss. “No more mystery clients. You have to promise me, Jayce. I don’t like walking into these situations blind.”

  She isn’t the only one. “It’s easier said than done,” I remind her, even though I agree wholeheartedly with her. “Sometimes, they just won’t tell me more until I take the case. You know it’s because they don’t trust me. They all want to test me, and to do that, they have to keep their identities in the dark.”

  Kenna lets out a small growl. “I hate this.”

  “I know you do. I’m not a fan either.”

  “You never say no though, do you? The weirdest ones make you curious, and you drag us across the country to keep you from getting bored.”

  She isn’t wrong, so I can’t argue. When I blow out a breath, ready to try and ease her misgivings, I notice David’s head is bobbing around like a tennis ball being batted from one side of the court to another. “What?” I ask, my voice a little harsher than necessary.

  David’s a nosy shit. It rubs me the wrong way sometimes. I’m hoping that he can put that nose to good use for the length of time it takes the bond to start breaking down between us. The bond is in place because I wanted to take him from the location where a lot of ghosts hang out at the beginning of their new life in this realm, and move him back to my apartment.

  I did it for Drake’s sake, but also David’s. I hate thinking of ghosts being left to rot.

  I don’t know why, and Kenna can’t tell me, but when a person dies and they return as a ghost, more often than not, their non-corporeal forms are attached to grim locales.

  Now, it might be an energy thing. It could be something to do with ley lines, which kind of fits with the places I’ve found so far where new ghosts tend to pop up, but I don’t know for sure. All I do know is that unless I get involved, it takes them a very long time to break away from the energy in these places. And they’re always depressing.

  Run down bookshops with more mildew than mice. Old subway stations. Abandoned power plants. Dilapidated houses or apartment blocks.

  Spooky in appearance and nature.

  Spooky’s kind of what I do though. It’s my natural milieu, so I’m at home there when I go hunting for new ghosts.

  The bond between David and I is born of blood. I have to cut myself, rub the blood on the new ghost, and then the energy from that connection binds the spirit to me. If I don’t renew it, it breaks down and will disappear after a while.

  I highly doubt I’ll be renewing David’s mark.

  Unless he’s as smart as Drake says he is, and can help me help my clients.

  He’s still gawking, switching his gaze between Kenna and me, ignoring my original peeved question. Huffing, I demand, “What are you looking at, David?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out what’s going on. Not a crime to look, is it?”

  Narrowing my gaze at him, I murmur, “No, but it’s rude to stare, and you know you’re being a prick without me having to spell it out.”

  He sulks, but I can tell he’s amused. I don’t deal in bullshit. I say it how it is, even if it’s offensive. David likes that about me. It kind of makes me wonder about the women in his life. I’ve never met Jackie or Robin, his mother and sister. I suppose if things go well between Drake and me, then I will. I get the feeling there’s no love lost between mother and son; although I know David supplemented the household income with some apps he’d designed so there was a core of familial loyalty in him.

  With Drake for an uncle, that isn’t too hard for me to understand where it comes from.

  “What are we doing?”

  His question stirs my thoughts, and I look at Kenna again. When she shrugs, I groan. “Come on, Kenna.”

  “I’m telling you, Jayce, this isn’t your regular kind of case.” She rubs her arms. “I don’t know why, but it’s not.”

  David frowns. “What’s wrong, Kenna?”

  “I didn’t trust that Marla, and I don’t trust Charles.”

  “You didn’t trust the boy? He’s eight! What’s not to trust?”

  I sniff at that. “Use your brains, David. How long has he been eight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For the rest of your time on Earth, you’re going to be a teenager. Kenna is going to be in her early twenties, and Casper will always be in his forties. But Casper’s seen almost as many centuries as the Declaration of Independence, Kenna lived through Nixon and the Jive, and you, a Millennial, will know what it’s like to hit 2100 when few else of your generation will.”

  He frowns at me. “How long ago did he die?”

  “That’s the right question to be asking, David,” Kenna replies, smiling for the first time since we’d left the private jet. It’s an encouraging smile, and it doesn’t bode well for me.

  I know she’s got a soft spot for him, which means she’ll take him under her wing. If that carries on, I’ll never get rid of him. Kenna might, God forbid, have me bind him to me again.

  I shudder at the thought.

  “One thing you need to remember, David, if you’re going to stick around. Just because you’ve died, doesn’t mean you’re nice.”

  “Huh?” he scowls at me. “What the hell does that mean?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea if Hitler came back as a ghost. But if he did, he’d be as twisted in that form as he was when he was alive. You know what? He’s probably worse as a ghost, because he’s had time to fester. For his nature to grow worse.

  “Just because that kid died tragically, and young, doesn’t mean he’s nice.”

  He ponders that a second. “I get what you’re saying.”

  “Good,” I retort. “Now, from the looks of Marla, I’d say she was late twenties, early thirties when Charles died. That’s around when she dropped out of society, anyway. And she’s what? Mid-forties now?” when Kenna nods in agreement, I cock a brow at David. “So, roughly, Charles has had nearly a decade and a half of being eight. What do you think that’s done to him? How pissed off are you that you died young? And this kid was rich. How bitter will he be that he didn’t get to experience this kind of wealth as an adult?”

  David releases a slow hiss of air. “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Wow.” I scratch an itch on my nose. “Look, this is speculation. The kid could be nice.”

  “He wasn’t though. In the car, he was spiteful,” he counters with a frown, obviously thinking back to that conversation and not liking what he remembers.

  “Yeah. He was. I try not to judge on first meetings though. First impressions count in the real world, but not in your realm. Characters and personalities are constantly adapting to the time spent as a ghost.”

  “I was lucky, wasn’t I?”

  His question has me rearing back in surprise. “Huh?”

  “I was lucky Uncle Drake came to you.”

  Kenna was smiling that godawful nurturing smile. “You were. It’s good that you recognize that. We know you’ve been rebelling against us both these past few weeks.”

  His cheeks, sepia to me, turn a little darker brown with a flush. “Sorry,” he whispers gruffly.

  “You’re forgiven.” I wrinkle my nose then remember to order, “Just stop accidentally popping into the bathroom when I’m using it, huh?”

  “Yeah, I will. I was being a jerk.”

  My sigh is long suffering. “You’ve just died. You’re entitled to be a jerk.”

  “Yeah, but..
. I could be like Charles. Just left to wander around, nobody to talk to. Nothing fresh or exciting going on. Thank you, Jayce. I really—” he bites his lip. “Well, I appreciate what you did for me.”

  I’m not going to lie. This comes as a surprise. I expected the jerk phase to carry on for a hell of a lot longer than it has done.

  Who am I kidding?

  Just because he’s grateful doesn’t mean he’ll change.

  Men. Pricks, dead or alive.

  “You’re welcome,” I tell him gruffly. What else can I say? Actions speak louder than words? Not sure how well that would go down.

  He ducks his head, a sheepishness about him that is actually rather endearing. It’s like I’ve caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Only rather than slapping the hand, I just let him get away with eating the whole tray, and he’s gladly scarfing the lot down.

  “If it hasn’t escaped your notice, we do need to come up with a plan.” Casper’s bored tone breaks into the awkward moment. I’m really glad, to be honest. Casper isn’t friendly. He’s been living down the tagline of that comic book since it came out.

  If anything, it’s made him meaner.

  Rubbing my eyes, which suddenly feel crusty with fatigue, I sigh, “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t believe I was excited when I was talking to Drake. Now, I’m just...” I blow a raspberry, which has Kenna and Casper looking at me with disgust and David grinning.

  “Even I know who Marla Davison is, Jayce,” David chides. “It’s no wonder you’re psyched.”

  That actually does make me feel better. If a kid knows who she is, then hell, she’s transcended urban legend and gone on to become a myth.

  “When Marla comes back, maybe she’ll tell us what she wants from us,” Kenna murmurs. “She never actually said, did she? Once you told her about the scar on Charles’s face and she revealed who she was, the car started, and we drove here in silence, didn’t we?”

  I pull a face. “Yeah. I guess.” Silence would have been preferable to the small talk I’d had to endure. Marla had pointed out landmarks on the path to her huge home, and once we’d arrived, the limo sweeping down a fifty-foot drive, complete with manicured topiary and gravel that looked neat as a pin, she’d just guided me into her home and shown me where she wanted me to stay. “But it’s obvious, right? They always want us to talk to the ghost.”