She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But Tag won’t let me go down to the basement. He says there are a couple broken steps and when he gets around to mending them, then I can go down. But I really don’t think anybody else is hiding in the house. This happens too frequently—surely I would have seen anybody else by now.”
“What about Tag? What does he say? Has he experienced anything unusual?” I held up my hand before she could speak. “Give me a second. I want to get my notebook so I can write down notes.” I patted my lips with my napkin and headed over to a console table. I kept a disk binder there so I wouldn’t always have to run to my office. I flipped it open to a blank page, found my pen, and returned to the table.
“That’s an unusual pen,” Lana said, staring at my hand.
“It’s handcrafted from bog oak, all the way from Ireland. My mother sent it to me for my birthday last year.” I held up the hand-turned pen. It was a comfortable weight and size, the black of the bog oak contrasting with the brass Celtic knotwork fittings on the top, middle, and bottom. I took the cap off and began to make notes of what she had already told me.
“Your mother lives in Ireland?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No, but she bought it while she was passing through. She lives in Scotland. She returned there when I was twelve, leaving me with my father.” I paused, looking up. Lana knew some things about me but I wasn’t sure what she’d say if I told her the whole story. “All right, tell me about Tag. Does he notice anything otherworldly? Have you told him what you told me?”
A flash of irritation crossed her face. “I told him, all right. All he says is, ‘Maybe this is your imagination, Lana.’ Or ‘Are you sure you weren’t drinking, Lana?’ I honestly don’t know if he’s seen anything or not, but he acts like I’m some hysterical woman.”
Oh, lovely. I hated working cases where all members of the household weren’t on the same page. It made things so much more complicated. Usually, I had to wear the skeptic down until they admitted they were either too embarrassed or too afraid to tell me the truth.
More often than not, the holdout was simply so afraid that they were clinging to the hope that if they ignored it, it would all go away. But that admission only came after a number of arguments. Unfortunately, that reluctance often set up the person who originally came to me for a romp through “Am I Crazyland.” After all, if their roommate or spouse didn’t hear or see anything, maybe they were starting to hallucinate.
“Okay. So Tag thinks you’re making this up? Does he have any reason to believe that you would pull something like that? Or is he gaslighting you?”
I didn’t bother to pretty up the alternatives. Over the years, my direct nature had cost me several clients, but that was an occupational hazard. I wasn’t a diplomat, didn’t aspire to be one, and I didn’t bother trying unless there was a real sense of loss connected with the case. After losing Ulstair, I had developed a lot more empathy for those in mourning.
Lana paused, frowning. She lowered her gaze to the ground. “When I was fifteen, I ended up in the psych ward for a month. My parents locked me up because I kept seeing an old woman in my room and I thought she was out to kill me. Tag knows about that.”
I stared at her, mulling over a couple thoughts. “Have you ever had other flashes—where you just knew things, or where you picked up on something that was going to happen before it did?”
“You mean, am I psychic? Yeah, I thought of that, too. I don’t know. The old woman was gone by the time I came home, but I could swear she was really there. My parents wouldn’t ever let me talk about it, but I did a little research on my own and found out that the woman who had owned the house before we bought it had died there. She looked a lot like the woman I thought I saw. So maybe I do have some sort of power. But I can tell you this: I didn’t just make her up for my own amusement, and I sure as hell am not making up this.” She finished her dinner and pushed back her plate.
Sometimes people did make up things for attention, but I sensed that Lana was telling me the truth. “All right, then let’s just assume that either Tag’s gaslighting you, or he hasn’t seen anything. Or maybe he’s afraid. Why do you think the spirit’s targeting you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I just moved in a few months back. Maybe the ghost feels like I’m intruding? Maybe it doesn’t like me for some reason? I just get a real hostile feeling when I’m there.”
“What’s happened in particular?”
“The other night I went to take a shower. Luckily, I was standing back, so that the water didn’t hit me full force, because the hot water knob turned on its own and the water suddenly reached scalding point. I managed to jump out before it burned me. If I had been closer to the spray, I would have been scalded.”
I blinked. That was an attack, for sure. “What else?”
“Whenever things disappear, they’re important to me. My wallet, my car keys, jewelry. They vanish and show up somewhere else.”
“Poltergeist activity, then. Anything else?”
“I woke up last night at around three a.m. I could feel someone was looming over me. I reached out, and Tag was asleep beside me. I couldn’t bring myself to open my eyes because I was so afraid of what I might see, so I just turned over and ignored it. Finally, it went away. But I woke up this morning to find scratches on me.”
She pulled up her sleeve and showed me five long scratches on her arm that looked as though they’d been made by fingernails. They were red and inflamed.
“You don’t have a cat, do you?” I knew she didn’t but had to ask.
“Nope. And they weren’t there when I went to bed.”
I pulled out my phone from my bra and took a picture of the scratches, then jotted down what she said, trying to keep my expression neutral. But the truth was, by now I agreed that she was being attacked physically. And given what was going on, activity had escalated to a dangerous point.
“How long has Tag lived there?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think he rented the place a few years back. I never really asked, and I’ve never met the landlord. Tag’s going to be leaving for a business trip tomorrow. I thought you could come over to check things out? If you find something, maybe he’ll listen to you.”
“I hate to break it to you, Lana,” I said slowly, “but I’ve picked up on the fact that Tag doesn’t like me, so I’m not sure he’d listen to me. But yes, I can come over. Shall we say tomorrow night, around eight o’clock? He’ll be gone by then?” I pulled out my phone and glanced at my schedule. Today was Thursday. Tomorrow, my schedule was clear. On Saturday, my friends Ember and Angel were coming over to hang out.
Lana nodded. “That works. Tag’s leaving around two p.m. so that should be perfect.” She paused, then licked her lips. “What happens if we find a ghost there? I can’t live in that house with something that’s waiting to hurt me.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said. “We’ll figure it out, Lana.”
But as I walked her to the door, something inside told me that we were facing an angry spirit, and that this wasn’t going to be just an ordinary case.
Chapter Two
Long, long ago, the Ante-Fae came into being. Predecessors of the Fae race—both Light and Dark—my people were here before the Great Fae Courts emerged from the mists. We were here before human civilization rose to prominence. We were born into this world when it was still rough and wild and all a-tumble, and we walked the Earth as kings and queens of cities long lost beneath the waves and the sand. Or at least the majority of Ante-Fae did.
The old ones—and there are still many of my kind left from that era—cared very little for creating dynasties, at least in the way most mortals think about them. But they went into hiding for the most part, and became part of the world in a way that the wind is part of the world. In a way that the ocean is part of the world.
But me? I’m new. I’m ninety years old by human
reckoning, but I’m still considered an infant by the Ante-Fae who have been alive for eons. As far as aging goes, we do age, but even slower than the Fae. And the birth rate of the Ante-Fae is so low that it only creeps upward in minuscule blips on the graph.
Most of the Ante-Fae have little to do with the human world, or even the world of the Fae. But among the young, we recognize that the world is changing, and we’ve chosen to become more a part of the modern era. We’re known as the Exosan among our own people. We live on the fringe, reaching out to embrace the future rather than hide from it. Most of the other Ante-Fae want little to do with us, ostracizing us for our choice. But the Exosan gather together in groups, forming little bands in this very big world.
As for me? I’ve always been a loner, so being considered pariah doesn’t bother me much. My father and mother care about me, and it doesn’t matter to either of them that I’m considered one of the Exosan. My mother is one of the Morrígan’s Bean Sidhe—her name is Phasmoria. And my father is Curikan, the Black Dog of Hanging Hills. Neither sees me often, but we have an understanding. And until recently, I had Ulstair. Overall, I’m happy being one of the Exosan. I like keeping in touch with all the changes and technology. And that, I firmly believe, is the key to survival for any race.
Friday morning started out just peachy. At eight a.m., I woke up to the sound of shots being fired next door, and I knew just who to blame.
Springing out of bed, I stomped my way over to my wardrobe and yanked out a black corset dress. It had a side zip, and was boned enough to give ample support. I had pre-laced the back, but I was able to shimmy into it with the zipper open. The embossed tone-on-tone corset had a sweetheart neckline, leading up to two wide straps that were just shy of being cap sleeves. The flouncy skirt had four tiers of black sheer material that resembled tulle without being itchy. I slid on the dress, zipped the side, then slid on a pair of black lace tights. Over those, I pulled on my new black Harajuku chunky platform boots. Lacing them up the front, I buckled the rows of straps that crossed the laces. The platforms were a good three inches high, and were sturdy enough that I could run in them.
I peered into the round mirror on my vanity table. I loved makeup and fashion and tended toward the gothic-witch look in my tastes, but the style was all me and I felt comfortable in my neo–Morticia Adams getup.
Unlike the Fae, who could pass for human except for their glamour, the Ante-Fae usually couldn’t. Oh, some of us were bipedal and I had a head, two hands, two arms, and two legs like most humans, but my hair was rich brunette with natural purple streaks running through it, and the glamour of the Ante-Fae was stronger than the Fae.
Hidden beneath my clothes was a birthmark that splayed cross my back and chest, scrolling down both arms to end at just above my wrists.
Intricate swirls in shades of purple and black spread across my back, looking like wings. On the front of my torso, the scrollwork blossomed up from my navel, spreading out to cup the bottom of each breast—flowers with petals in shades of plum and green, shadowed with black stems and leaves. The wings were the sign of my mother’s blood. The flowers were from my father, and together, the markings blended together to form a pattern that was unique to me.
I leaned forward, applying my eye shadow and liner, then spread bright plum lip lacquer over my lips. When I was done, I sat back, feeling ready to tackle my neighbors. When I went out in full dress, I scared them, and I was bound determined to scare them out of living next door to me.
Raj was waiting patiently near the kitchen. “Food for Raj?”
I leaned down and stroked his head. “Food for Raj in just a few minutes. I’ll make you a yummy breakfast when I get back. Be good and don’t get into the cupboards.”
He sighed, rolling his eyes, but sat back on his haunches and continued to stare at his food bowl. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. Autumn chill be-damned, I wasn’t about to put on a coat and ruin the effect of ooo-spooky goth girl that they had come to know and fear.
Sure enough, as I stepped into the cul-de-sac, I saw my neighbors in their yard, wearing rain ponchos, drinking beer, and playing with their shotguns. Lovely, just lovely. I grumbled as I kept to the curb running along the rounded loop that led in and out of our street.
My neighbors to the left had been a constant source of irritation over the past few years since I had bought the house. The first set had been hyper-religious and kept chanting demon demon demon when they’d see me. I had managed to run them out by inviting the biggest, baddest Exosans I knew over, and throwing one hell of an outdoor party. The Randalls had moved shortly after that, and in had moved the Perkinses.
The Perkinses had been almost the complete opposite. Slackers, they definitely weren’t part of any conservative organization. No, they had been party-hearty dudes. I could handle parties except when they continued around the clock, complete with fireworks and booze-laden freaks who tried to climb in my bedroom window. Or they had tried until Raj caught them.
A well-placed spell had set off a series of small fires around their lot. I had built in a control to the flames so they didn’t give off actual heat, but appeared to be smoldering away. The Perkinses had left. After that came the Jacksons, then the Williamsons, and the Dumases. It was as though the house only attracted dumbasses and I had begun to wonder if it was haunted.
Then, four months ago, the Smiths had moved in. As generic as their name was, the family members definitely were anything but generic. Buck Smith liked to go hunting for small game in UnderLake Park, a prosecutable offense, except that he was really good at not getting caught.
Minerva, his wife, smoked like a chimney and spent her time alternating between screaming at the kids and screaming at her husband. She lived in Daisy Dukes and flip-flops, even in the middle of winter. Their eight-year-old twin boys were out to steal whatever they could. The entire family belonged to the Human Liberation Army and as far as I could tell, they stockpiled food and supplies for the civil war they imagined was in the offing.
I straightened my shoulders and strode up their front walk. Buck was sitting on a lawn chair, his shotgun at his side. One of the kids was tearing apart something that looked like it had once been a television. Inside, I could hear the TV blaring and the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with booze hung heavy in the air.
Buck slowly straightened, rising to meet me as I marched my way up the sidewalk. As I drew close to the porch stairs, he stepped in front of me and held up his hand.
“Hold on there, BoneTalker. You know I don’t like your kind on my property.” His upper lip was covered by a straggly mustache, and his buzzcut showed tattoos on the sides of his head. He was wearing a stained T-shirt, a pair of camo pants, and a shiny black belt with what looked like a pewter belt buckle. A number of the local xenophobes were convinced that the Crypto population couldn’t handle pewter, mixing it up with iron. I never bothered to inform them that not all Cryptos were the same, and anyway that they were wrong about the pewter.
I stopped about a foot away from him. He was about six inches taller than I was, but that didn’t bother me. “Put that gun away or I’ll call the cops and they’ll haul your ass off to jail.”
“It’s legal for me to have a gun on my property, freak.” His lip curled just enough to make me want to slap the smartass look off his face.
“Oh, I know that. I also know that it isn’t legal for you to be shooting it outside in a suburban neighborhood unless there’s a problem that warrants it. And I don’t see anybody trying to raid your property. You fucking wake me up one more time by shooting off your gun and you’re going to regret it.” I planted my feet, holding his gaze. I could play the intimidation game just as well as he could.
Buck looked like he wanted to shoot me, but I knew he wouldn’t. He was a bully, and most bullies were cowards beneath the surface. I could smell the fear wafting off of him, and I aimed to use it for all it was worth.
The boy ran toward his father. “Leave him alone, you bitch.” He
looked up at his father for approval. Buck high-fived his son.
I held out my hand, palm face up. Without a word, I summoned up a globe of fire about the size of a tennis ball. I stretched out my hand so they could feel the flames sparking off of it. I could expand the flame enough to actually harm them, but for now, I kept it small. A hint of what I could do went a long way.
Looking toward the little brat, I gave him one of those smiles that suggested I might bite his head off. “Might want to rethink your comments, little boy. And you,” I stared at Buck, “might want to rethink your choice of residences. You don’t like the people who live here? Go find a neighborhood you deem more desirable. You’re in a Fae neighborhood, and you might want to take a good look around. Nobody here’s going to be sorry to see you go, you pigheaded, bigoted little man.”
Before either of them could respond, I slammed the ball of fire to the ground at their feet, where it exploded in a shower of sparks. The heat from the embers didn’t faze me, but both Buck and his son stumbled back, their smugness vanishing.
“The world doesn’t belong just to humans, and it never did.”
Without another word, I turned and marched back to my house. I heard a few mumbled curse words, but then a door slammed. When I reached my sidewalk, I gave their house a quick glance. Buck, his son, and the gun were gone and the front door was closed.
Satisfied that I had made inroads on my campaign to drive them out of the neighborhood, I shut my door and called the cops to report Buck disrupting the peace with his gun. I might not want to hang out with most of my neighbors, but if we had a block party, everybody would show up, have a good time, and play nice together. There wasn’t room for someone who wanted the sandbox all to himself.
Raj was patiently waiting as I shut the door behind me.
“Food for—”
Witching Hour: A Wild Hunt Novel, Book 7 Page 2
