Ghost Avenger

by Serena Akeroyd

  Relief hits me when I see we’re close enough to reach them before the visitors can even get out of their ride.

  As we approach the ’copter, Jayce brakes to a halt thirty or so feet away so we’re not as affected by the huge drag of the rotor blades. Our clothes still whip around us, it’s not as intense, and as they slow to a halt, we walk toward the sleek bird.

  A man ducks out, dressed far too unsubstantially for the cold weather in the traditional Saudi dress of thawb, bisht, gutrah, and agal. The white thawb and colorful bisht whip around his feet at the slowing drag of the blades, and the gutrah, red and white check, flutters in the breeze clamped to his head by the black agal.

  Behind him, a woman in a neat pantsuit climbs out, cellphone in hand. I would assume the Prince is not used to waiting, but these aren’t usual circumstances.

  “As-Salaam-Alaikum, Your Royal Highness,” I greet, waiting for the man to extend his hand in greeting.

  He is younger than I expected. Perhaps even a few years younger than Marla, which I admit, comes as a surprise. When Jayce asked the housekeeper for the contact details of the Prince, she had to strong-arm the woman into handing them over by holding an impromptu séance—something she’d vowed not to do again after the one she’d held to bring some justice for David’s murder. When I’d Googled the Prince, no images had appeared, more NDAs in place, we assumed, so to see the man himself is quite surprising.

  He’s far less imposing than I imagined, but his will undoubtedly isn’t. For a woman like Marla to be so cowed by him, I can only assume the man wears his title like a mantel.

  “And you are?” Prince Redouane Al-Alaniz demands, peering down his hawk nose at me, treating me like the peasant I undoubtedly am to him.

  But then, the man deserves some hauteur. We are shanghaiing him the minute he steps off his helicopter, and he has been dragged here, to the home where he exiled the woman he claimed as his wife.

  I press my hand to the bottom of Jayce’s back and press her so that we’re standing beside one another. We’re a team, and there’s no way I want Al-Alaniz to think I’m in charge simply because I have a dick.

  This is Jayce’s work, not mine.

  “We are the reason you’re here,” I counter.

  The Prince narrows his eyes at us, the black onyx dots raking over us with the precision of a laser. Shivering as we are and in clothing as inappropriate for the weather as his own, it’s easy to sense that we’ve been found wanting. I’m in slacks and a shirt, Jayce wears jeans and a tee, hardly the grand attire befitting the first formal meeting with royalty. However, his posturing isn’t what matters here.

  The man has a wife, and it’s about time he took responsibility for her or severed all ties completely.

  “You are the ones who claim this nonsense about ghosts and auras, I believe.” His sneer has Jayce bristling at my side.

  “Nonsense and yet you’re here,” she bites off, not an ounce of servitude about her. It almost amuses me to see her stand toe to toe with royalty. She doesn’t give a shit that this guy could buy and sell us both ten times over. She doesn’t care he’s a prince with blue blood.

  And you know what?

  She’s right. The guy craps like we do and has to brush his teeth at night.

  I wasn’t overwhelmed by the sight of royalty, but her attitude does settle me.

  “Of course, I am. My wife is...”

  Jayce huffs out a laugh. “Your wife tried to kill herself, and you didn’t pop over for a visit, Your Royal Highness.” She says the title like it’s an insult, and the Prince takes it as one. His shoulders stiffen, umbrage has that hawk nose of his flaring wide at the nostrils. “So, I’d assume you would like to know what we have to say.”

  “And we don’t have much time. Marla is suspicious.”

  “She doesn’t know I’m here?” the Prince asks, surprised. “My staff phoned ahead, made arrangements.”

  The PA behind him clears her throat. “Unfortunately, sire, we couldn’t get in touch with the house.”

  Crap, last night’s storm must have knocked out the phone lines. It would have been real handy to have known the Prince was coming ahead of schedule.

  Al-Alaniz doesn’t look pleased, but he flexes his jaw in understanding. Before he can make any demands that a limo be brought to him, or even worse, that Milo brings the vehicle over without being ordered to—very likely—I insert, “I have one hour to explain the situation, Your Highness, and it’s a situation that endangers your wife’s life. She must not know what we’re about to discuss. It could trigger another suicide attempt.”

  The man frowns then snarls something in Arabic to his assistant. She retreats to the helicopter and within seconds, the pilot jumps out. The Prince turns back to the helicopter, climbs in then turns to beckon us forward.

  “Here goes nothing, Drake,” Jayce mumbles under her breath.

  As we step forward, I bite off, “Jayce, what if Milo arranged for Marla to have that accident?” When she blinks at me, I continue, “It’s likely, don’t you think?”

  Her cheeks have been whipped a rosy hue by the wind, but at my words, she stills and her cheeks blanch. “My gut tells me you’re right.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Marla will be devastated.”

  I nod, grimly. Devastation isn’t the word. “She can’t know, Jayce.”

  “She has to! We can’t keep this from her.”

  “Let me explain to both of you. We don’t have time. Marla only gave me so long before she said she was coming out here to see who her guest was.” Before she can complain, I reach the door and hold out a hand to help her into the helicopter. She hunches her shoulders to climb in, and I do the same. Even though the blades aren’t turning, it’s instinct to duck your head and keep them away from the swirling scythes.

  “You have my attention,” the Prince snarls. “But I’m a busy man, and I do not have all day.” His accent is British. Not a hint of his culture within the modulated tones, and the words are crisp enough to be cutting.

  “Your wife contacted me because she believed her son was a ghost, and he was guarding her.”

  “Such foolishness,” the Princes grouses scathingly.

  Jayce stiffens with annoyance. “Would you like to know who’s at your side, Your Royal Highness?” Once again, the title is spat out like an insult.

  I want to cringe, but I can understand her anger.

  “Do not be ridiculous,” he starts, then blanches when Jayce snaps something in Arabic.

  I can tell she doesn’t speak it because her accent is atrocious, but whatever it is, it’s enough to make the Prince look faint. He turns to the side, head whipping about as he roars, “What magic is this?”

  “Not magic. Your grandfather is at your side. And he’s telling you not to be an ass.”

  If anything, Al-Alaniz doesn’t appear to find comfort in Jayce’s words. He flinches, then flinches harder when Jayce says something else in slow, garbled Arabic. But it has the man nodding like a chastised boy, and Jayce tries again:

  “Your wife contacted me about her son. She wanted to know if he was a ghost, as she felt certain she was unable to address her grief, because he wasn’t at peace. I was able to confirm that her son did not cross over, and that he is, sadly, an unsettled spirit.” She sighs. “Things got complicated when I learned of her situation, as well as her belief that the car she was driving was tampered with even if she had no idea why that would be, and as a result, Charles died.

  “This notion of tampering makes sense as it’s more likely a spirit would cross over if it were simply an accident. Foul play usually means a spirit will return to this plane and will not find peace. After I explained this situation to Marla, she requested that I help Charles.

  “However, upon learning of the situation, I realized Marla needed psychological help. This is Drake Edwins. He is a noted psychologist in New York City. He came to help when I called on him as Marla is in a very weak, emotional and mental state. I’m
not ashamed to admit that I coerced her into speaking with Drake. I promised I would help Charles if she had help too.”

  Al-Alaniz shook his head, his gutrah swinging about his ears with the force of disbelief. “This makes no sense.”

  “It’s a very condensed version of events,” I tell him. “We have no time for anything else. While I have worked with your wife, Jayce has worked with Charles, and she has learned that the boy was sexually abused by one of the staff at the estate.” The man stilled. His forbidding features leaching of color as I continue, “Marla blames herself for Charles’s death. In her mind, if they hadn’t been living here then perhaps the accident wouldn’t have happened.

  “Of course, this isn’t the way the world works, but as Jayce said, and I confirm, your wife’s mental state is extremely fragile. She already blames herself, what do you think she will do when she learns her child was being sexually abused by a member of her staff? A man who still works here today.” What I don’t say is, the man who had the knowhow as well as the opportunity to sabotage her car so as to clear up any loose ends.

  “Do you have any proof of this?”

  The Prince’s words are like ice, but Jayce shakes her head, unaffected by his wrath. “How can we? I have the word of a ghost, and any tangible evidence went up in smoke years ago.”

  “Then how can I believe you? How can I believe any of this?” his eyes flash, the dark brown turning black with the riptide of his emotions.

  Jayce sighs. “I can only offer you proof of my abilities. To your left is your grandfather, and to the right, a servant by the name of Maryaam. If you have questions you’d like to ask them, questions only you and they know the answer to, I would be willing to act as the go between.”

  “This is nonsense. You’ve dragged me out here on some kind of wild goose chase!”

  “Whether you believe this or not, your wife’s psychological welfare is at stake. Help us avenge Charles’s murder or not, Marla is in desperate need of attention.”

  The Prince’s gaze flashes between us. Whatever he’s looking for, I’m not certain, but he asks something in Arabic, and Jayce replies. A conversation ensues, and I can sense Jayce has no idea what she’s saying, but the Prince understands far too well. As the minutes pass, minutes in which my promise to Marla ticks nearer to its deadline, Al-Alaniz looks peakier and peakier. His swarthy skin is whiter and sweat is beading where his gutrah meets his forehead.

  “Enough,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He raises a hand, covers his mouth, and I’m stunned to see his fingers are shaking. “Who abused my stepson?”

  And like that, Jayce’s gift paves the way where nothing else could have.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jayce

  I won’t deny I’m stunned that the man seems to give a shit. The way Marla has spoken of him, though there was no condemnation to her words, painted a picture that discomfited me. A cold man, wearing his bitterness like a shroud, using it and his power to manipulate those in his world who displeased him.

  But, his hands are shaking as he stares at me, finally trusting in my gifts after whatever it was his grandfather and the female ghost, known as Maryaam, said to him.

  I’m curious as hell as what it was that finally convinced him, but I don’t speak Arabic. More’s the pity. Getting my tongue around those words certainly wasn’t easy, but he seemed to understand. Understand enough to be scared.

  It’s horrible to admit, but sometimes it’s better when they’re scared. It means they’ll do as I want rather than kicking up a fuss about every little thing. Fear does that. It improves my stature in people’s eyes, and a man who is a Prince understands stature and status more than anyone else alive.

  His question, as well as my thoughts, has me going off tangent. “Where’s your entourage?”

  He expected me to reveal his stepson’s abuser, so he frowns at me. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I shrug. “I’m curious. Where’s your security? Your, I don’t know, dressers? Ladies-in-waiting?” To Drake, I ask, “Do Princes even have those?”

  A glint appears in his eyes, and I can tell he’s amused and trying to fight it. “No. They would be for Princesses or Queens. I imagine, anyway.”

  Al-Alaniz narrows his eyes at me. “I came ahead. They’re driving to the estate.”

  “Why?”

  This time, his nostrils flare. “Because I deemed your information urgent enough for me to be present.”

  “And yet, when Marla tried to take her own life, you did nothing?”

  There’s something weird going on here. Regret. I think that’s what it is. The man wears his arrogance like an iron-clad coat, but that faint emotion keeps drifting toward me. As well as resentment. Now, I could understand that being aimed at me, I’m not respectful of his position, and I’m prodding at wounds he obviously wants to leave alone. But this time, what I feel, is actually aimed at someone else.

  Someone not here.

  “I didn’t know Marla tried to commit suicide. Not until very recently. My secretary did not feel it was an important enough matter to take me away from my work. I was dealing with a particularly advantageous trade deal, at the time.”

  “You didn’t know she tried to kill herself?” my words are disrespectful, but I’m not sure whether to be scathed or stunned.

  “Yes,” he hisses. “I was unaware of what occurred. Safe to say, the secretary in question now has another position. Not on my team.”

  Wow.

  Whatever I’d expected, it wasn’t that.

  Does that make the man less of a bastard then?

  Kenna pokes her nose between the headrests and says, “No. He’s still a bastard. He’s just not a huge bastard.”

  Nice to have the clarification. I blink at her and silently tell her to shut up. I can’t deal with distractions when a woman’s life and the fate of a child abuser is on the line.

  “This changes little, I’m afraid,” Drake murmurs, sensing my quandary. “Marla believes you don’t care, and us telling her differently, at this point, will do very little to improve matters.”

  “She is so mentally unstable?” Al-Alaniz whispers, the words thick as though his tongue is a heavy weight in his mouth.

  Drake nods. “I’m sad to say it, but yes. Your banishment of her was something she could cope with, something she felt she deserved after she lied to you, and she could cope with it while she had her son. But after his death, she’s spent a long time alone. Neglected.

  “I’ll assume if your assistant failed to inform you of her suicide attempt, they also made the arrangements for her to be visited by a psychologist?” When the Prince makes an affirmative noise, Drake carries on, “He has obviously had more time to work with Marla than I have, but I’d say she’s suffering with bipolar disorder and PTSD. I’ve been unable to access her records to be able to confirm my supposition, but you will, I’m sure, be able to ascertain whether I speak the truth or not.”

  The Prince clenches his jaw a second then lifts an elbow and settles it on a small armrest. The helicopter is cramped for all its luxury, but he seems unaware of the discomfort as he processes mine and Drake’s comments.

  “What can I do?” he asks after a good five minutes of silence. Silence in which Drake and I had been left to our thoughts.

  Truth is, those five minutes were good for all of us. The mad dash of trying to reach the Prince before he got to Marla, the lies of the last few days, as well as the emotional shitstorm going down in my head thanks to what Charles has been telling me, the peace did me a world of good.

  “Marla feels trapped here. She’s grown almost content with her cage though. It took a lot for me to even get her to admit she wasn’t happy with her life. Even when I asked her why she tried to end it all if she was happy, I couldn’t get her to see the truth. Now, she’s slowly realizing that yes, this is a gilded cage.”

  “She has the freedom to do anything she wants!” Al-Alaniz snarls. “She has a beautiful home, access to car
s, planes, helicopters... She has an allowance that would happily fund ten families and keep them in comfort. What more does she need?”

  “Love. Affection. Friendship,” Drake murmurs softly, stating each word with precision. “Money won’t heal her. You need to let her go, Your Royal Highness. Let her fly free, because if you don’t, she will make another attempt. I do believe the first attempt was a cry for help. But if that cry goes unanswered, I fear she might be successful the next time.”

  “If she’s a danger to herself then surely...”

  Sensing where he’s going with this, I snap, “Don’t you dare suggest an institute or hospital. The woman doesn’t need another prison. She just needs her family. She seems to feel like she can’t leave this place, and from what I can gather, her parents won’t visit her here.”

  The Prince frowns. “There are safety protocols they have to adhere to,” he murmurs absentmindedly, and I’m left wondering what kind of safety protocols exist where a king and queen can’t do whatever the fuck they want. Huh, maybe absolute power is a myth too?

  He starts to stroke the small goatee on his chin. “Where has she gotten this idea that she has to stay here? I never stated that in any of the terms of our separation. I never said she couldn’t leave this place. My major concern was with any information leaking to the press. My privacy, our privacy,” he amends, “is paramount.

  I shoot a look at Drake. “Well, whether or not it’s true, she believes it, and that’s what matters.”

  For a second, Al-Alaniz pins me with a glare that is loaded with dislike and distaste, but then, he seems to shove that aside and asks, “And what of this pervert who harmed my stepson? All of my staff are carefully vetted.”

  “I’m sure they are, but that just means the man has never been caught. Not that he’s innocent.”

  “You’re certain he abused Charles?”

  “Dead.” It’s my turn to clench my jaw. The details Charles gave me are enough to make my stomach churn. “I have...” I pause when nausea bubbles up like a near-to-combusting firework. “Charles gave me ample—” I duck my head and can feel my mouth working as I try to figure out what to say. How to explain. “He described situations that...” Drake reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers. His touch imbues me with strength, but words still escape me, and I have to settle on: “The man abused your stepson.”