Ghost Hunter

by Serena Akeroyd

  When he retrieves a rather large piece of, what looks like, fabric, I’ll admit to being surprised.

  “Is that skin?” I ask, a little creeped out now. Probably from watching Gina Davis in Cutthroat Island one too many times, to be fair.

  My imagination is dangerous when let loose.

  He nods, gets to his feet, and carefully unfolds the map on the table. He treats it with kid gloves, tracing his fingers over the crease marks in the patina with a loving finger.

  “This guy’s creepy.” The out-of-the-blue comment comes from Drake’s nephew, David. He has a habit of saying shit how it is.

  And I can’t deny, he’s right.

  Francis is creepy. Like, he’s Kevin Spacey in Seven creepy. Or that Bond villain who stroked his cat with all the adoration of a man jacking himself off creepy.

  “Jesus, Jayce Ventura. Your mind is filthy.”

  Kenna’s disgust has me hiding a snort.

  Can I help it the dude reminds me of that?

  She rolls her eyes at me, then wanders over to the treasure map

  It looks authentic, but then, if a Native American ghost had something to do with it, I kinda guess it is.

  I’m still totally perturbed by the notion that he can call on the “spirits of his people” and manifest those powers into action.

  That’s so beyond fucked up, and goes further than I’d ever imagined possible.

  I know Kenna’s shocked, too, although she’s not saying much about it. To be fair, this entire meeting has unsettled us all.

  Because it will make Francis uncomfortable, I ask, “Whereabouts is the treasure supposed to be?”

  “It’s a shipwreck. Loaded with Union gold in Louisiana.”

  Well, that’s about as loose as it could get. He might as well have said it’s in the water somewhere… the catch is, however, that I can tell he’s lying.

  Rolling my eyes, I peer at the map again, notice the squiggles and the crosses and the lines on the skin—it’s a big piece. Maybe some poor bastard’s back?

  “How did you manage to figure out it’s a shipwreck?”

  “See that there?” He points to a name that’s either really badly written, or just very old. “The Queen of Dorset sailed in 1864. Upon researching the ship, I discovered that it was supposed to be carrying arms, but the manifest said otherwise. It’s a long-held legend that it was carrying Union gold.”

  Nodding at him, and trying to look suitably impressed, I cast a glance at Red Bull. He looks at me with satisfaction.

  The lure has been thrown, the bait has been taken, and now he’s just waiting to reel in the fish. Whether he’s right about the Queen of Dorset’s payload or not, I’m not sure. Still, it isn’t my business. I just have to make it seem to be.

  “So, Ms. Ventura, this ghost who’s following me around. What does he say about the treasure map?”

  “Well, it’s certainly authentic,” I tell him, because it sort of is. Ish.

  “Do you think he’s a guardian of the gold?” Francis’s eyes widen in a way that tells me he read way too many adventure novels as a boy.

  “No. He won’t say what his reasons are for following you around, but he’ll be with you for the interim.”

  For some reason, that reassures him. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. People seem to like the idea of having ghosts with them.

  The irony being, some days I’d pay not to have them around, and people are happy being haunted.

  Go figure.

  The meeting quickly wraps up after that. I’m still not entirely sure what the man wanted from me, but he certainly feels like he’s got what he came for.

  I can tell he’s also satisfied that he doesn’t have to pay me. It doesn’t bother me, but his attitude tells me the type of man he is. A tightwad.

  “He probably doesn’t tip at restaurants,” David murmurs, coming to stand with me as we watch Francis take the elevator, Red Bull at his back, looming over him in a way that if Francis knew the truth, would have freaked him the fuck out.

  When the doors close, I let out a shaky sigh of relief. That was more intense than I realized. Not Francis, but Red Bull.

  Closing the door, I press my back to it and ask, “Kenna, have you heard anything like this before?”

  She shakes her head, further unnerving me—what Kenna doesn’t know isn’t worth learning. “Never.”

  Deciding Casper might be the best bet, considering he’s seen Red Bull before, I hunt him out.

  He’s pouting in my bedroom.

  Seeing him lying flat out on Drake’s side of the bed, I roll my eyes.

  His Confederate uniform is as pristine as it was the day he first wore it. The navy jacket pressed cleanly, the boots spit polished and shining, and the buttons shiny enough to see your face in them. He doesn’t wear the cap though, so I can see his balding head—he had to have been in his forties when he died—and a mustache that more than makes up for the lack of hair atop his head.

  “Who is he?” I ask with zero hedging.

  Casper’s here because he died in battle. Like too many men did. Not all are still haunting this plane however.

  Why some pass over and others don’t, I have no idea.

  It’s like why some suffer terribly with PTSD and others can just brush it off. There’s no reason to it. No rhyme. I just have to deal with the aftermath.

  What I try to do is find a way to release the spirits from this existence. Help them find closure…but sometimes it’s not possible.

  How do I help a man who died on the battlefield back when Abe Lincoln hadn’t been shot yet? It’s not like I can add time travel to my list of abilities.

  He crosses his legs at the ankle and bridges his hands over his belly.

  “Being stubborn, are we?” I ask, coming into the bedroom and laying down beside him.

  Kenna and David appear, but they stay quiet and find other places to lounge around.

  “I have nothing to say,” comes the short retort. He sounds pissed, but the one thing about a Southern accent, is that even when Southerners are pissed, they sound chilled.

  “No? Well, why not help me then? How do you know Red Bull?”

  “Seen him before.”

  “When?”

  “Long time ago.”

  “What is he?”

  “Choctaw.” Casper turns his head on the pillow to look at me. “He’s an evil son of a bitch.”

  “Francis isn’t exactly innocent,” I tell Casper, knowing there’s a reprimand in the ghost’s statement.

  “Nobody deserves what that bastard will do to them.”

  “How would you like it if your grave was dug up, your bones thrown away like trash, and then, your place of rest turned into a condo?”

  He purses his lips, and I can tell he’s trying to hide the fact he’d be pissed about such a fate.

  Spying the faint movement, I just quirk a brow at him. “Yeah. You wouldn’t be pleased.”

  “What he can do is beyond anything you can imagine, Jayce,” Casper tells me, the urgency in his voice stirring me with unease. “That man’s life is about to be in ruins.”

  “Good thing he’s old then,” David inserts, rather unkindly even for him.

  Kenna slaps him upside the head. “That’s a mean thing to say, David.”

  The kid just shrugs, obviously unapologetic for his remark.

  “He will wish he was older by the time Red Bull is done with him, and will wish that death was knocking at his door.”

  Concern floods me. “Shouldn’t I have helped Red Bull?”

  Casper shakes his head. “You had no choice. He would have slung the net about you, too. He brings trouble wherever he goes.”

  “How did you see him before?” Kenna asks, coming to perch on the side of the bed.

  “I’ve been around long enough to see the various things people have done to spurn the Injuns.”

  “Native Americans,” I immediately correct, glowering at him until he just rolls his eyes.

&nbs
p; “The Native Americans haven’t exactly been treated right by Americans, have they? There are plenty of people Red Bull has punished.”

  “Really?” I feel sick to my stomach again. “You sure I did the right thing in helping him?”

  “You didn’t, but neither did you do the wrong thing. There is nothing you can do when a spirit like Red Bull appears. You must simply let him do as he pleases or you too will be drawn into the poison he spreads.”

  Gulping, because Casper never says more than ten words in a week and this is more than he’d usually say in a month, I ask, “Is that why you’re here?”

  He frowns at me. “Why I’m with you?”

  I nod.

  His study of me is so intent I want to fidget, but I don’t. I’m used to scrutiny. I just don’t know what it is he’s looking for.

  “Once upon a time, I watched a young girl talking to a flapper. A silly wisp of a woman in a beaded skirt and short bobbed hair—something I hadn’t seen since the twenties. I saw her standing with a child in a graveyard, of all places. She shouldn’t have been alone. She should have been with her mama, but she wasn’t. She was leaning against a tombstone like it was a piece of furniture.

  “It made me mad to see the lack of disrespect. And then I realized that little girl was talking to the flapper. The flapper wasn’t just following her around as is usually the case. The girl and the woman were arguing.

  “The girl didn’t want to be there. She wanted to go home, but she stayed because the flapper told her to.”

  I blink at him, trying to remember that day. When it pops into my head, I frown. “You didn’t join me then.”

  “No. I watched you. From afar.”

  “That’s kind of creepy, Casper,” David informs him.

  I can’t help the bubble of laughter that explodes from me.

  Casper ignores David and murmurs, “Do you know why I followed you?”

  “Because you wanted to have someone to talk to again?”

  “No. Don’t forget. I watched you, I didn’t speak to you.”

  “True.” I wriggle my shoulders, more unease flooding me.

  “When you left, I looked at the tombstone. The name was one I’ll never forget.”

  “Maggie O’Reilly,” I whisper, remembering the occurrence because Kenna had insisted that we stay at the graveyard until dark had approached.

  I’d been twelve at the time, and so beyond freaked out, I’d been jittery with nerves.

  I turn to look at Kenna. “Why did you have me sit there so long?”

  “She was lonely. Maggie used to lay in her coffin, and wouldn’t come out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  Kenna shrugs. “I knew it would upset you. So, I just made sure we visited often.”

  I rub my arms, feeling gooseflesh travel up and down them. “We went a few times a week, didn’t we?”

  Kenna nods. “Until she crossed over.”

  “Did we do that?”

  “Who knows?” Kenna answers. “We never know why some will cross over and others don’t, do we? It’s luck of the draw, I suppose.”

  “What does Maggie O’Reilly have to do with anything, Casper?”

  “She was my daughter.” For the first time since I’ve known him, I can hear the emotion choking his words.

  Blinking at him in surprise, I blurt out, “You had a daughter?”

  “I had three,” he informs me. “I knew Maggie was there. It was why I was at the graveyard myself. But one day, I saw you. You just appeared, and as you said, you kept coming back. One day, Maggie crossed over, and I’d never been so grateful in all my life. This one or the last.”

  I blink at him. “I’m glad I helped.”

  “When I saw your kindness, I vowed to protect you. You were unguarded, Jayce. Kenna was no deterrent. There are far more kinds of spirits out there than the ones you deal with on a regular basis.”

  My eyes widen. “More like Red Bull?”

  He wriggles his shoulders. “Malevolent. The kind you deal with are just regular spirits. Their deaths are the reason they are on this plane of existence. The ones I’m talking about are like Red Bull. Able to draw on energy. Do things to humans that you wouldn’t believe.”

  Nerves flutter through me, making me curl up on my side as I turn to look at him. “You’re my guardian,” I blurt out, no small wonder in my voice.

  He nods. “I am.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’ve never had to. Until now.”

  Kenna murmurs, “You could have told me.”

  “You share most things with the girlie here. I couldn’t trust you not to say anything.”

  “Why would it have mattered?”

  “Why scare her unless it was necessary? All these years, she’s avoided them. But coming across them was bound to happen someday.”

  “You make it sound like more will come.” The prospect doesn’t exactly fill me with joy.

  The look he shoots me is sorrowful. “Lassie, if luck is on your side, Red Bull will leave you be. If not, then more will come. His kind leave traces behind. That attracts others like him.”

  He blows out a breath, turns his head back so he’s staring up at the ceiling. “Let’s hope the Lord is watching over us.”

  For some reason, that, more than anything else he says, has terror rushing through me. Casper isn’t religious. He knows I’m not either. And like I said before, Kenna spouts shit about the good Lord and other things at me, but it’s just a rebuke.

  David’s voice jerks me from the heavy thoughts plaguing me. “Way to kill a conversation, bro.” And with that, he walks out, leaving the “adults” to their heavy, contemplative thoughts.

  Chapter Five

  Drake

  “What are you doing up?”

  To say I’m surprised to see Jayce at seven on a Wednesday morning is pretty much an understatement.

  I never see her in the morning. I don’t even know what time she wakes up, I just know it happens at some point in the afternoon.

  The weekend doesn’t count. We’re both night owls, and have a tendency to sleep in together. She wakes up when I do because they’re the only days we have free to ourselves and she doesn’t grumble so hard.

  She blinks at me sleepily, and I pass her my coffee cup. She inhales it, then sits down at the table.

  “Another bad dream?” I ask softly, pouring her another cup.

  She nods, swallows heavily, then peers down at the table.

  For the past five weeks, since her birthday, she’s been plagued with nightmares.

  They don’t happen every night.

  But I can always tell when she’s had one. There’s a fatigue about her, one that’s only appeared recently, and I don’t like it.

  I don’t like it at all.

  She’s not a frail woman. She’s strong, sassy, and usually strident. That’s her true nature. Not this tired, stressed, and thoroughly overstretched woman.

  She surprises me by shuffling around the counter and coming to sit on the stool by my side.

  When she leans into me, I wrap an arm around her shoulder and hold her close.

  I don’t say anything. If she wants to talk, she knows I’m here. That’s what I do for a living, after all. Talk. And listen.

  She knows that.

  She snuggles into my side, saying nothing as I eat my oatmeal. She reads the newspaper in front of me as I do, and stays silent all throughout breakfast.

  Whether Kenna is talking to her or not is obviously more than I know. I wish I did. I wish I could ask the ghost questions, because she’ll know what’s wrong with Jayce. Whereas me? I’m in the dark.

  With a sigh, I press a kiss to her temple.

  The temptation to pry is all-consuming, but I manage, barely, to withhold my questions.

  It’s the silence that’s the most astonishing aspect of this new mood plaguing Jayce. She isn’t a quiet woman, but this whole about face is making a mockery of that once firmly-
held belief.

  “I need to go,” I murmur against her temple.

  She nods, but her eyes are closed. It doesn’t come as a surprise that she’s been dozing against me.

  With a sigh, I ask, “Do you want to meet me for lunch at Henry’s today?”

  Her eyes pop open. “For beignets?”

  There’s such a little girl quality about her, I can’t help but grin. It reminds me of when I’d promise to take Robin to the arcade, and she’d bat huge green eyes up at me in total adoration.

  Of course, this woman’s sensuality is keyed into mine. That lost-little-girl quality isn’t a turn-on, just a reminder that she needs more than sex. She needs me. Her partner. A confidante.

  “For beignets,” I confirm.

  She nods, smiling brightly. “That sounds perfect.”

  “I want you to talk to me, Jayce.”

  “I’m talking to you now.”

  Tension has overset her shoulders, making her stiffen up in my hold. The looseness of her relaxed state in my presence disappears, and though it makes me sad, we can’t work this out if she doesn’t share with me.

  “I want you to take the morning to think about what you need to tell me.”

  “I don’t need to tell you anything,” she denies, frowning as she reaches for half the croissant I’d left—breakfast is my one vice of the day. I’m more gourmand than gourmet at this hour of the morning.

  “We both know that’s BS,” I tell her softly, grinning at her when she grumbles. She eyes the grin with a pout.

  “Stop being mean.”

  “You love it,” I growl, ducking down to kiss her throat. Her squeal has me laughing, but it comes as no surprise when she tilts her head to allow me greater access.

  A breathy moan escapes her as I nip at her throat. Flicking my tongue over her fluttering pulse point, loving her taste. But I pull back, well-aware that I’m being mean, as I tell her, “I have to go.”

  She glowers at me, but the dazed cast to the look diminishes its power somewhat. “Bastard,” she retorts. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Maybe. That’s how I feel when you’re not sharing shit with me,” I reason.

  “Pussy tease,” she barks.