Ghost Avenger

by Serena Akeroyd

  He snorts. “No. The practice will do that for you, because Jesus, if you get your kicks out of living with a bunch of dead people, we need to remind you what it feels like to live.”

  There’s no judgment in his tone, just bewilderment. It makes me smile in amusement rather than puzzled defensiveness. “I like the sound of learning to live with you.”

  He holds out a hand. “Together.”

  I smile again. “Together.”

  We squeeze fingers and push away from the table. Getting to our feet, I gladly huddle under his arm when he rests his on top of my shoulder.

  This closeness...it’s something else I’ve been lacking and needing.

  I’m well aware that I’ve never let myself be so vulnerable with a man before. Maybe I’m stupid to have such faith in Drake, but the feelings he inspires in me aren’t going to go away. For the first time in my life, I’ll be glad to leap before I look and trust that he will catch me.

  Jayce

  Two bowls of cereal, a croissant, and a huge cup of coffee, and I’m still not prepared for Charles.

  Did I mention how much I hate kid ghosts?

  Talk about pains in the ass!

  Jesus Christ.

  “Come on, Charles,” Kenna coaxes. “We’re trying to help you.”

  When he sniffs, I turn my back on the scene and stare out of the picture window in my quarters. After breakfast, Marla and Drake are off to one of the dozens of rooms in this mansion to do whatever they’re going to do, but I chose to stay here, in my suite.

  It’s comfortable, has a great view of the drive and the mountains and hills beyond, and it’s near to the kitchen. I have a feeling I’ll need plenty of snacks.

  Shit, I’ll probably have to start practicing yoga just for fitness sake. I never realized how much I ate until I stripped in front of Drake and wondered what he thought of me.

  Ah, self-esteem issues. How I have not missed thee.

  Still, sometimes the only way I can get through this stuff is to eat my way through it. I know Drake would say I have comfort eating issues, but my retort to that would be, ‘No, shit, Sherlock!’ Wouldn’t you have some issues when your job involves trying to figure out what was bad enough for a person to die but not be able to cross over into the peace of the afterlife?

  I think I deserve a few donuts.

  And chips, and candy, and...

  You get the picture.

  Grunting, I turn back and see Kenna is on her knees now, pleading with Charles to talk. He came to my suite with Marla this morning, and he stayed without my requesting it of him. He wants my help, the little bastard, but he wants us to work for it.

  Kenna, quite obviously, knows how hellish her life is, and is very selfless in that she always tries to free others of her kind. We tried many times to liberate her, but it hasn’t worked. It doesn’t stop her from wanting to help other ghosts.

  I’m not sure I could be as generous.

  But then, I’ve been told on many occasions that I can be a bit of a bitch.

  Said bitch comes to the fore when I see how she’s subjugating herself before him. It pisses me off, because he should be begging her for help. This is the sick shit that comes with kid ghosts. They get weird. Really weird. Sadistic, almost.

  Of the many ghosts I’ve come across, each one as unique as any human can possibly be, it’s always the kid ghosts that freak me the fuck out.

  Pinning my hands to my hips, thoroughly annoyed that Charles has the power to discomfort me, I snarl, “Kenna, get your fool ass back on that sofa. If he doesn’t want your help, then he doesn’t have to have it.”

  Her head swipes around so fast, she’d have given herself a migraine if her brain was still rattling around inside her skull. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me,” I retort, uncaring if she’s offended. “I won’t work with a ghost who makes you supplicate yourself before him. You’re not a slave. He’s the one in need of assistance. Not us.”

  Charles glowers at me, but I just lift a brow. “I don’t give a shit if you’re on this plane or not, buddy. You’re not my problem. But your mom? I actually quite like her, and she does give a shit if you’re suffering or not.” Though I’ve told Marla repeatedly I’m here for Charles and not her, in this case, it’s a lie. I don’t like the brat. But I do like her. Plus, heck, she is one of my favorite stars. “I’m helping her by trying to get you out of here. I’m not going to beg you though. If you don’t want my help, fuck off out of here and keep on haunting her heels. Keep on getting trapped in car doors and watching while she eats a really nice piece of steak, and you’re left drooling over the notion of eating some shit from a drive thru.”

  He clenches his jaw and snarls, “How dare you talk to me like that? I’m the son of princess!”

  “How dare I? I tell you how, kid. You. Need. Me. I don’t need shit from you. I can lie to your mother and tell her I helped you. She won’t know, and she’ll still give me something as a thank you, and there isn’t anything you can do about it.” I would never dream of doing that, but this little fucker doesn’t have to know that, does he? “And technically, your mom isn’t a princess. You’re the grandson of a princess. If we’re going to be pedantic then let’s start off on the right foot.”

  He sneers at me. “How can you help me? It’s impossible. There’s no use to any of this talk about freeing me.”

  “How the fuck do you know I can’t help you? I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. I can only do so much though, and I need the willingness of the ghost I’m working with.”

  He sniffs, then retorts, “My willingness is yours. For the moment.”

  Whoopdy-doo. Barely refraining from rolling my eyes, I purse my lips at him instead. I’ve seen a few smudges in this household that have me antsy. Most of them are to do with Marla. I can feel her energy in them. They’re from her blackest of black moods. She’s a manic depressive, and her bouts have stained the very air she breathes.

  But there are old smudges. Ones that come from Charles’s time.

  I’d like to know what they are, even as I’d like to avoid knowing what they are.

  When it comes to kid ghosts, you can guarantee, whatever happened to them, is never good.

  Knowing I have to talk to him about it makes me antsy, which makes my snarly mood even worse. Dammit, I need sugar.

  I stalk away from my position at the window and head for the console table with the tray of goodies one of the maids left earlier. I put in a request for junk food last night, and they brought me a convenience store’s selection.

  I’m in heaven.

  Picking up candy and chocolate, I take a huge bite of red licorice, chomp on it, let the sugar start to buzz around my veins and then, retreat to the window once more.

  I throw my first question out there just to liberate some tension. I hope I’m wrong, but I have to ask…

  “Did someone touch you, Charles? When you were a little boy?”

  There’s a sudden stillness about him that has my antennae twitching.

  Fuck.

  He was.

  I close my eyes as tingles shift up and down my body. I never get used to this horror of learning the very worst of what mankind can do.

  Wishing Drake were here to wrap me up in his huge arms, to remind me of the good in humanity, I take another large bite and chow down on that. I don’t want it. The candy churns inside me, but it’s a habit, a comforting one. And I need every ounce of that I can get.

  I crumple the wrapper when I’m done and shove it on the coffee table. Going with my gut, I state rather than ask, “Milo.” Instinct has me saying the name, sensing that the man’s hatred of me, his utter distaste stems from fear.

  He might not believe in ghosts, might not believe I can see them, but there’s always what if, isn’t there?

  After all these years of keeping his sick ways a secret, he’ll be terrified the shit is about to hit the fan.

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Charles whis
pers, and starts to get to his feet.

  For the first time, I can feel the little boy lost and not the bratty little bastard he’s become. But truth is, how the fuck can I blame him now?

  Some bastard did...things...to him. Things that were terrible enough to prevent him from finding peace.

  In a backward kind of way, this is a good sign. Maybe bringing Milo to justice will be all the resolution Charles need to cross over. It would be far more complicated, and his liberation far less likely, otherwise.

  This time, I let Kenna get to her knees again when she approaches him. Her hands come out to grab the spindly arms of the small boy, and I clench my jaw when she hugs him. I can feel tears prick my eyes, but I shove them away. Charles is half-boy, half-ghost now. He will see my tears as a weakness, and he’ll try to take advantage of my feelings.

  With stoic resolve, I button down my emotions and reach for the chocolate I’d grabbed earlier. For the moment, that’s the only peace open to me, and I embrace it with open arms, only for Kenna to disturb said peace by murmuring in my ear, “Going into a sugar coma isn’t going to do us much good. Avoiding this only prolongs the agony; for us, but more so, for Charles.”

  I close my eyes at her words, wanting to hide from the truth in them.

  I didn’t sign up for this. I really didn’t. I was born with this fucking curse, and now, I’m destined to hear about child abuse, murder, and pain and suffering. I want to press my head to the window and weep, but more than that, I wish Kenna were real. I wish she could wrap her arm around my shoulders, pull me in close like she did Charles, and tell me that all this was a bad dream. Every last bit of it. From the ability to see fucking ‘smudges’ to being able to communicate with ghosts.

  I want all of it gone. Now. Yesterday.

  Instead, when I open my eyes, I see her arm is around me, but as always, I can’t feel it.

  I’ll never be able to feel her.

  She’s my mother. At least, she’s more of a mother than my biological one has been, but I’ve never felt her kiss me on the forehead, never heard her applaud me when I graduated, nor have I ever had her hand curled into mine, squeezing supportively.

  She’s done them all. Every last one of them. But I’ve never felt them.

  It’s then I realize that if I had my wish, that if I couldn’t communicate with ghosts, I’d never have had her. And that if I did have a wish, it would be to finally know what her hug feels like.

  As with everything in life, it’s a balancing act.

  We humans cannot know good without first knowing bad, and that’s my punishment. Or at least, it’s my chore in life. To experience the love of a mother who died a decade before my grandmothers were born, I have to know suffering that comes in the form of these lost souls.

  With a shuddery breath, I turn to Kenna. There’s a look on her face that can only translate to pride. She’s proud of me. She knows I’m strong, that I can handle this, and that I will do whatever I can to help this spoiled, horrible, poor, hurt, lost child.

  “He can’t touch you anymore, Charles.” As an opening, it’s not the most sensitive, but like the saying goes, from my lips to God’s ears. Knowing a man can no longer touch you and hearing it aloud, for the first time ever, are two separate entities.

  He stiffens as a result, and I whisper, “He doesn’t like me. When I first landed here, he glared at me. I thought it was because he believed I was a con artist out to screw your mother out of money. Maybe it’s out of fear. We all fear the unknown,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “He might not believe in my abilities, but what if I could see ghosts, what if I could communicate with you and learn what he did to you.” I step forward, approaching Charles in a way I never would have dreamed of twenty minutes ago. I get on my knees, put my hands on either side of his, and whisper, “He will suffer as you suffered, Charles.”

  “You can’t promise that,” he snarls, his rage that of a man, his voice that of a small boy.

  Heart breaking, I vow, “I’ll figure out a way.”

  I did it for David. I can’t work miracles, but Nate Cambright’s good name has been disturbed. That gossip will haunt him until I die, because I will not stop using my influence to spread rumors about him.

  There are many ways of punishing people. I’m slowly coming to realize how adept I am at deciding how to go about something of that nature. Because Milo needs punishment, and I’m the stubborn bitch who will serve it to him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Drake

  It’s been two hours, and Marla still can’t see this place for the prison it is.

  She hesitates when I ask her the simple question, “How can you be happy with your life if you were so close to suicide?”

  The question is a contradiction, but she can’t seem to see it for what it is. I’ve spent two hours talking, trying to get her to open up, but if anything, I feel like she’s regressing.

  Frustrated, I sit forward in my armchair, rest my elbows on my knees, and rub at my temples. It’s been an exasperating couple of hours, and I’ve dealt with patients far worse than she, but there’s something about this situation that inspires a man’s desire to pull his hair out.

  A desire that is counterintuitive because at my age, the pelt on my head is a blessing I don’t wish to discourage.

  Sighing, I murmur, “Marla. Why did you try to end your life?”

  “I-I don’t know,” she tells me, giving me the same bullshit as she’s given me all damn morning.

  “Did you try to commit suicide? Or was it an accident?”

  She gulps, shakes her head.

  “What happened? I can’t access your medical file as I’m seeing you unofficially. You’ll have to tell me.”

  She reaches for her coffee cup, takes a sip.

  I feel like I’m going insane.

  Even the people who have been persuaded to visit me by family are more willing than Marla. Saying that, Jayce promised to help her son only if she spoke to me. That kind of coercion never works, but I can understand why Jayce felt she had to make that ultimatum.

  Talking to Marla is like bashing my head against a brick wall. Hell, that might be less painful.

  I suck in a breath, and like Jayce, pull out the only card in my pack I have left...Charles.

  “Why am I here, Marla?” When she shrugs, I snap, “Why did Jayce make me come here?”

  This time, her voice is low when she whispers, “She said she wouldn’t help Charles if I didn’t talk to you.”

  “Would you say you’ve been talking to me?”

  “Yes,” she replies, sporting an earnest look that has me gawking at her in astonishment.

  Is the woman for real? I rub my jaw and scan her features for duplicity but see nothing. “You’ve hardly said a word, Marla. If Jayce asked me if we’d accomplished anything today, in good conscience, I’d have to say no.”

  She sits up. “But you can’t do that. Charles is suffering. I need Jayce to help him.”

  “Well, if Jayce has put conditions on that then I can’t help it, and I won’t lie to her. You haven’t answered a single question. If I’m to tell her that you’ve been cooperative, I’ll need you to answer me. To talk to me. Do you understand?”

  A frown puckers her brow, but slowly, she nods. “You don’t understand what it’s like,” she breathes. “To live every day with a Non-Disclosure Agreement over your head.”

  “No, you’re right, I don’t. But do you remember what I wanted you to think about last night? What I asked you to think about before today’s session?”

  “You wanted me to ask myself why I was still living here.”

  “Yes. That and much more. You see, to me, this place is beautiful. I come here in luxury, a luxury that is actually commonplace to you, and therefore, not a luxury at all. But it’s something accessible to you, so it’s likely you don’t appreciate it. Still, it’s a perk of being the wife of a Prince. When was the last time you used your plane, Marla? When was the last time you used this perk that is
part of your prison sentence here?”

  She gulps. “I had it bring you and Jayce here. But besides that, two years ago. I went to visit my mother when she was ill.”

  “So, your perk is no perk because you don’t need it. When I came here, I saw you had a limo. That’s another luxury. But, you don’t need to be driven anywhere. I’ve seen the way you sip at your wine. You’re not a drinker, are you, Marla?”

  She shakes her head. “I drink when I’m dining with guests.”

  “How often do you have guests come here?”

  “Very rarely,” she whispers.

  “And how often do you leave the house?”

  “Twice a week. Maybe.”

  “You use the limo each time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you drive?”

  “I don’t drive. Not since Charles died.”

  For the first time, I see a light at the end of the tunnel. That’s a behavior pattern we can address and work on together. I don’t focus on that though, instead, I murmur, “When I flew here on a jet you don’t use, drove to your home in the limo you don’t really need because you can drive, you just don’t, I looked up at this beautiful house. Then, Jayce told me you lived in it alone. Now, you told me minutes ago that you, and I quote, ‘very rarely’ have guests here, so you live in this big but beautiful house all alone. So, Marla, my question is, what is the perk of being a Prince’s wife?”

  “That’s a stupid question,” she retorts crossly, folding her arms across her chest in annoyance.

  “No, it’s very pertinent. You see, I was thinking. Why would a woman like you allow herself to be locked away in a place like this?

  “At first, when you had Charles, I imagine that you were just grateful to have him in your life. Then, I realized you’ve been punishing yourself since he died, leading a miserable life for having played a part in the accident that took his. An eye for an eye, almost.”

  “That’s not true,” she snaps, hands flying out to grip the armrest. Her nails dig holes into the leather. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”