Ghost Hunter

by Serena Akeroyd

  And with that, her pussy muscles clamp down around my still semi-hard shaft, and she takes this old man to the stars and back.

  Again.

  Chapter Four

  Jayce

  When I open the door, two things strike me.

  I feel like I’m looking at Colonel Sanders himself.

  I mean, do people still wear those white linen suits with the lariat ties? I thought that died out after the Civil freakin’ War.

  Secondly, the one quiet ghost in my entourage, Casper the Unfriendly Ghost, lets out a long hiss.

  Clearing my throat, because I have to withhold the urge to ask Casper what’s got him acting like a riled cat, I murmur, “And you are?”

  The man’s eager eyes are beady but bright as he looks at me. There’s an enthusiasm about him that would ordinarily exhaust me, but I had three orgasms last night, so I’m in a good mood.

  “My name’s Francis O’Hara. I wrote you a letter a few weeks ago. You said I could come visit you.”

  I blink at him, trying to recall the name. Then, I wince, because he came up here without the doorman, Mr. Rodgers, informing me.

  Jesus, Drake’s bitching about poor security at the door is starting to make sense.

  This guy could be anyone.

  For each lover I have, there’s at least three haters aiming for my throat.

  “He’s the one with the treasure map,” Kenna tells me, acting like the unofficial PA she kind of is.

  She goes through all my correspondence with me so I don’t have to remember the details.

  The prod to the memory bank works. “I remember you. You’re the treasure hunter.”

  Francis’s eyes widen with pleasure. “You do remember me!”

  Well, I kinda did.

  “May the Lord have mercy on your lying heart,” Kenna tells me easily. The last time she went to church was her baptism.

  She’s no Christian. No matter how many “Good Lords” she throws my way.

  “I sure do,” I tell Francis cheerfully. “Now, come on in.”

  He walks in and politely wipes his feet on the doormat. When he’s finished, I shut the door, then guide him into my office.

  It’s a weird room. I prefer using my living room for these matters, but if the treasure map is as big as I remember him saying, then we’ll need the dining table that doubles as my desk.

  I changed things around when Drake moved in. I’m still getting my bearings, because we actually eat dinner at the table now.

  He’s made me have manners, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that.

  Reeling is probably the word.

  Kenna snorts. “I’ve been trying to drill manners into you for years. What did I get? Nothing.”

  I glower at her, then with a smile at Francis, ask, “Can I get you a drink?”

  He purses his lips. “Is it bold to ask if you have any Scotch?”

  I blink at him, then smile. “It’s not bold, but it’s a little early, isn’t it?”

  “It’s taken all my courage to come to you, Ms. Ventura. I need a sip more of the Dutch variety.”

  With a snort, I get up and head to the kitchen. Drake likes Scotch, otherwise Francis would have to put up with a rather sharp cranberry vodka.

  Before I can pour him a decent measure—he’s not the first guy who’s needed to get drunk to deal with me—Casper pops up.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask him, uncapping the bottle.

  “I know the ghost with him.”

  “I saw him.” Native American guy. Had the face of one pissed-off dude. “How do you know him?”

  “From the war, of course.”

  I blink at that. “He’s that old?” I’d just figured he was wearing ceremonial dress. Ghosts do that. They come back either in what they were wearing as they died, or a favorite outfit.

  I’ve never figured out why or even how they choose one over the other.

  “What happened? Why don’t you like him?”

  “You can’t trust those redskins.”

  I gawk at him. “You did not just say that. It’s totally the twenty-first century and if you’re going to be racist, you can fuck off to another part of the house. Don’t you be starting any fights while I’m talking to that man in there,” I warn him, and finally pour out the Scotch.

  Before he can complain, I make my way back to the office-and-dining room and I pass Francis the tumbler, then nod kindly at the Native American. He looks as dour as ever.

  “He didn’t look through your papers,” Kenna informs me.

  Well, wasn’t that kind of him?

  It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had snooped through my shit while they asked me to go get them a drink, or if I had to answer a call.

  People are just plain rude, sometimes.

  I think it pisses me off more that they don’t realize I have my retinue of ghostly guard dogs hovering around, keeping me advised at all times. By snooping, they’re basically giving me and my gifts the sweet FU.

  He takes a sip of the Scotch and his eyes round as he savors it. “This is good stuff.”

  I shrug. “I have no idea. It’s my partner’s.” I’m trying to say partner, not boyfriend. It makes me feel more mature and trust me, that’s something I need in my life.

  My habit of causing mischief makes me a bit like a female Dennis the Menace. Denise the Menace has a cool ring to it, no? Well, Denise the Me-niece.

  Except, the only trouble is, my kind of menace is pretty terrible.

  “How can I help, Francis?” I ask, pushing things along. “As you can imagine, I’m quite busy.”

  “Busy doing what?” Kenna retorts with a sniff, as she takes a seat at the dining table beside Francis. She’s eyeing the man up like he’s the most handsome guy she’s ever seen.

  Talk about hard up.

  “I heard that.”

  You were supposed to.

  Francis lets out a sigh that reminds me he’s there, and that I’m not just having a conversation with my ghostly mom.

  “I’m going to come across as greedy, young woman, but when I came across the map, I thought nothing of it. I was going to frame it and put it on the wall behind my desk. Then, this girl, just out of the blue, comes to me. Touches my hand and says, you have a ghost following you, sir. He’s a guardian. But he’s not watching over you. Be careful.”

  I eye the Native American standing behind Francis. He looks bored and stoic.

  Did the damn man never say a word?

  “Then,” Francis continues, “I saw an article about you in the paper. Is it true that you helped Marla Davison?”

  I blink at him. “I’m sure you’ll understand that I hold my clients’ privacy in the highest esteem.”

  His head practically bounces, he nods so hard. “Yes sir, ma’am. I understand and mightily appreciate it.” Apparently, he’s taken my brush-off as confirmation, if the brightness in his beady eyes is anything to go by. He clears his throat. “Is it true that you don’t charge for your services?”

  “It’s true.”

  “How do you live here?” he asks, looking around the apartment that, if I had any intention of selling, would probably cost a cool five or six million. Just the location alone makes it prime real estate, never mind the fact it’s a penthouse. Never mind that it’s fucking huge.

  “I received it via donation.”

  “Donation?” This time, his eyes bug out and he pulls at his collar like his lariat tie is tied too tightly.

  I nod, amused by his reaction. Truth is, even if it’s kind of offensive, I prefer honesty. Every damn time. Give me that over falsehoods and fake smiles.

  “I helped the previous owner, and he was so grateful he gave me the penthouse upon his death.” I eye him, watching and waiting for his reaction.

  Bull’s eye—his gaze shifts from me as he sits back in the seat with an exaggerated casualness that practically screams smugness. No way, no how, would this bastard pay for more than a Happy Meal at Mickey
D’s if he could get away with it. “That was mighty generous of him.”

  “What I did helped him a great deal.” My tone is bland, blank. Totally undercutting the massive understatement I’d just given him.

  “And you can’t say how you helped?”

  “Even dead clients deserve their privacy.”

  He blinks. “Very true, very true.”

  “What is it you want from me, Francis?” Now that he knows I don’t charge a cent, he’ll undoubtedly find it easier to loosen his tongue.

  “I want to know if that woman was right. If I do have a ghost following me.”

  The truth is, this “woman,” whoever the hell she may be, was right. And wrong.

  I’ve never met another person like me before. Remember, I’ve come across plenty of charlatans. In my line of work, they’re a given.

  But a true authentic seer is someone I’ve never met in my travels.

  “Do you know the woman well, Francis?” I ask, before I answer his question.

  “No. I live in a small town in Kentucky.” Just like Colonel Sanders. “She’s new there. Only lived there a short while.”

  “Has she made a name for herself?”

  He nods. “She doesn’t charge either.”

  “Why didn’t you ask her for more details? Why travel all the way to New York to ask me?”

  I don’t have to know the answer to know what he’s going to say.

  Fear. And greed.

  To be more specific, fear of loss.

  “When I read about your previous illustrious client, I felt sure that my situation, with the map, would be in safer hands with yourself, ma’am.”

  Pursing my lips at that, because I can only surmise that the man thinks I won’t be grasping and go after his treasure because I’m wealthy in my own right, whereas the other woman might chance her luck.

  “You do have a ghost following you. He’s a Native American.”

  Francis’s eyes widen and he tugs at his collar again.

  “Unfasten the tie, Francis. You’ll be more comfortable.”

  Damn man looks like he’s about to choke every time he’s shocked.

  “An Injun?” he sputters out, making me glower at him.

  “What’s with all the racism today?”

  “The man is vile. Expect nothing more than prejudice to fall from his lips.”

  It’s my turn to bug out. The first words to fall from the Native American’s lips are a doozy.

  “Francis, I’m about to start a conversation with the ghost following you. Feel free to listen in, but please don’t interrupt.”

  “No, of course not, ma’am.”

  It would behoove me to be polite, but instead, I’m my usual self. “Why is Francis vile, sir?”

  Kenna sighs. “I swear you go out of your way to cause trouble.”

  Francis’s mouth has dropped open at the question; he looks like he could swallow a fly.

  The ghost murmurs, “My name is Red Bull.”

  “Like the drink?” I ask, astounded. “That’s unfortunate.”

  Red Bull glowers at me, but I’m not offended as that seems to be his thing. “It is a trusted and proud name.”

  “I’m sure it is, sir, and I meant no offense.”

  His stoic features turn harder. More like stone, if that’s even possible.

  Dressed in his leathers, complete with feathers in his headpiece, the man looks like a walking, talking National History Museum statue.

  I’ll not lie. I’m fascinated.

  This is the first time I’ve spoken to someone from that era and that race, and I’ve always been kind of glad about that.

  I watched Poltergeist at way too young an age. It soured me a little on dead Native Americans. Last thing I need is to add a pissed-off poltergeist to my retinue.

  “I’m not an evil spirit,” Red Bull snaps, and folds his arm over his chest. “I’m a ward.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, confused.

  “It means I stop people from abusing the past.”

  I frown at him. “You mean, you have powers?” He nods.

  “But no ghost has powers.”

  “Powers? What kind of powers?” Francis inserts, but I wave a hand at him and ignore him completely.

  “If someone desecrates my holy land, I come and return upon them their rightful punishment.”

  That has my eyes widening. Jesus, I was only joking about the movie.

  “Should I be scared, Red Bull?” I ask him, watching a little nervously until he shakes his head.

  “I only hurt those who hurt my people.”

  “How has he hurt your people?”

  “He built on ancient burial ground.”

  “Like the movie?”

  Red Bull grunts. “This is not some Hollywood production, Miss Ventura.”

  “I prefer Ms.”

  Another grunt. “But yes, I know of the movie you speak of.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re doing with him though.” I frown at him, genuinely perplexed.

  “You will understand in the upcoming days.”

  That little humdinger has me gulping and shooting a wild, wide-eyed look at Kenna, who’s also looking mighty disturbed.

  Before I can say anything, Red Bull murmurs, “It’s imperative you say nothing about the treasure map.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a trap.”

  “It is?”

  The man nods. “Yes.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  I want to tack on “to him” but I figure that will upset the plan, and the last thing I need is a Native American ghoul haunting my ass.

  Why have I never heard about anything like this before, Kenna? I send her the message, knowing she’ll read my thoughts.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never come across anything like this either, Jayce.”

  Red Bull nods at our conversation, apparently aware of what I didn’t say. “This is right, and how it should be. I seek vengeance, that is why I’m here. I’m the guardian the other seer spoke of. But he misunderstood what she was saying and thinks I’m protecting him, only I’m not.” His voice is modulated, well-spoken, but there are trails of his heritage. A gruffness on certain words, a twang here and there.

  It’s actually quite charming.

  “Thank you,” he tells me, making me blush as I realize that he, just like Kenna, can hear my thoughts.

  Well, that’s a first. A first I’m not sure I’m happy about, either.

  Shooting Kenna a glance, I can see she’s just as unnerved, but we stay silent on that topic and instead, I ask, Are you going to kill him?

  “No. But he will suffer.”

  What did he do though? I don’t understand. I’m not sure I feel right that you’re acting on this when maybe there’s a genuine reason for what he did.

  “He built on a plot of land. When he came across the bodies of my people, he didn’t notify the proper authorities. He paid the construction crew to dig up the bones and then get rid of them.

  “The souls of my people have been disturbed now. I have failed in my duties to protect them, and so I seek vengeance as is their, and my, right.”

  For someone whose life revolves around the dead, I wince at what he has to say.

  People don’t realize how important the burial process is. Sure, they think they do. They think because they have twenty thousand dollar funerals, that covers it. But it’s a lot more important to the spirits than they realize.

  Can make or break the difference between guiding a spirit to the other side, for example.

  “You are a good girl,” Red Bull informs me, bowing his head with respect. “You understand and appreciate the dead. I will make sure this man’s punishment does not affect you.”

  I gulp. “Thank you.”

  “What’s he have to say?” Francis asks eagerly, except this time, his whole granddad persona doesn’t work on me.

  I ignore him again, and ask, What kind of powers
do you have?

  “I channel the spirits of my fallen people. It enables me to manipulate objects, insert ideas into the minds of men. I can only do this to punish those who have hurt my kind though. You need not be fearful of those like me if you don’t do our people any harm.”

  I gulp again because though those powers seem kind of tame, they’re actually not.

  The power of suggestion is the most dangerous talent a person could have.

  There’s a reason Lucifer isn’t so popular.

  Is there anything I can do to help?

  “Just don’t tell him about my reason for following him. And when he shows you the map, just pretend to be interested.”

  “There’s no pretend about it,” Kenna answers for me. “Jayce is never not interested in things like that.

  The damn woman knows me better than I know myself.

  I’ll do my best to help. It has been a pleasure to speak with you.

  “That I doubt,” he retorts, sounding, for the first time, amused by what I’ve said. “Even in life, I wasn’t a pleasure to speak with, and such a grim task as I have, there is no pleasure to be found in my presence here.”

  Well, that’s certainly blunt.

  Nodding at Red Bull, I transfer my attention to Francis. “He’s certainly a guardian.”

  “He’s here because of the map, isn’t he? I found it on a dig,” Francis tells me, and I realize then how good a liar he is.

  A dig, my ass.

  “A day after I had the map in my possession, the seer pops up and tells me about the guardian. The girl had seen me before and had never uttered a word to me about him. The map must have changed that.”

  What can I say?

  “May I see the map?” I ask, hoping that will take his mind of his current train of thought.

  I wonder if the seer who spoke to Francis was real or fake. Did Red Bull speak to her?

  “Her talents are not like yours. But she can sense auras. She’s not a charlatan.”

  Grateful for the insight, I smile at Red Bull, who just nods.

  Damn, the man’s dour.

  Francis looks a little uneasy at the prospect of sharing his goody bag with me, but he reaches for the leather satchel I only now notice that he’s brought with him, and begins to shuffle through the papers inside.