by Devon Monk
“Good.” He straightened and put both his hands on his knees, ready to push up onto his feet. “ ’Cause you looked like you’d seen a ghost out there.”
I choked on the scone and coughed uncontrollably.
“You okay?”
I nodded and thumped at my chest to try to get the bite of scone either up or down. I picked up my coffee and took a slurp. That got me a burnt tongue and scalded the roof of my mouth, but at least the scone slid down my throat. I coughed a little more and then sneezed.
How graceful was I today?
Grant calmly handed me the towel again, which I used to wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes.
“Maybe I should stop filling those things with gravel,” he said.
“What did you say?”
“Gravel. The scone. It’s a joke.”
“No. You said something about a ghost.”
Grant gave me a long look and then leaned his forearms on the table, folding his fingers together. “I said you looked like you’d seen a ghost,” he said calmly. “Standing out in the rain all pale and spooked. Why? Did you?”
I didn’t want to talk about this. Not to Grant. As far as I knew, he didn’t use magic, didn’t really understand it, and wouldn’t even care if I had seen ghostly glyphs or a whole herd of ghostly people stampeding outside his door.
“Did you see one?” he asked.
“What?”
He wiggled his fingers in the air. “A ghost.” Those dark, dark blue eyes still held the echo of his smile, but he was not joking around. It was a serious question.
I took a drink of coffee—a little more carefully this time.
“Get Mugged used to be an old saloon and boardinghouse,” Grant said. “It was built over the Shanghai Tunnels—did I ever mention that? Some people—especially people who use magic a lot—see things here. Spirits. I had a local ghost-hunting team come out and check into it a while back. Said there was a lot of activity. Ghosts of the men and women who were knocked out, locked up, killed, or sold onto pirate ships heading to China.”
“You had ghost hunters in here?”
“Sure. Why not? You don’t believe in ghosts?”
“I just—” I took a breath, exhaled. “I’m surprised you do.”
“Well, now that I’ve shared my secret, it’s your turn. Did you see a ghost?”
Hells. Why not?
“Yes.”
“Here?”
I took another drink of coffee, which hurt the burnt spots in my mouth. Totally worth it.
“Outside,” I said. “It was just for a couple seconds, but there was more than one.”
Grant grinned. “I liked the sound of that. Haven’t had multiple apparitions before. Were they full body?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you see them clearly from head to toe?”
The memory of them turning, gazing at me with hungry, empty eyes, moving toward me slowly, too slowly, flashed through my mind.
“Every bit of them. And I don’t know what you’re so happy about. They scared the hell out of me.”
“Haven’t seen a full body myself. Always kind of hoped I would. The ghost hunters said they didn’t think there was harmful activity here.”
“You might want to rethink that,” I said. Hells. Who was I to change Grant’s mind? If he liked thinking friendly ghosts were Caspering about in his coffee shop, that was cool with me. He could probably capitalize on the haunted thing and bring in the tourists.
And since no one else had seen multiple full-body apparitions (see how quick I pick up on this stuff?), I was beginning to think seeing them—and being touched by them—had more to do with those Death glyphs out on the wall than with Grant’s Shanghai victims.
“Oh, now. Don’t go holding out on me. I can see it in your eyes. There was more. Spill it, girl.”
I took another bite of the scone, which practically melted into sugar and spice in my mouth. “This is really good. Did you change bakeries?”
“It’s my own recipe. Less scone. More ghost.”
“You made this? I’m impressed. You should open a bakery or a coffee shop or something.”
“Allison Beckstrom,” he said. “Don’t make me sic Jula on you. And don’t think she can’t take you—she’s little, but she’s tougher than she looks.”
“Listen,” I said. “I saw ghosts—a lot of them. And they . . . um . . . touched me. It hurt. Don’t. Don’t look like that. I’m fine. It was just for a second. Right before you came out. And before that I saw some kind of magic written on the warehouse wall. Glyphs that were for Life and Healing—good glyphs. But around all those was the glyph for Death. When I got closer to the building, they . . .” Telling the truth and watching Grant’s expression go from excitement back to worry again was harder than I thought it would be. “. . . they just—”
“Disappeared?”
I nodded.
“And you’re sure you’re not hurt? I’ve heard of ghosts leaving marks.”
“I think I’m fine.”
He stared at me.
“I’ll check myself over when I go home. After coffee.” I picked up the cup and took another drink.
Grant didn’t push me on that, for which I was grateful.
“Life and death, huh?” he asked. “Were they city-cast to keep vandals off the block?”
I blinked. “I don’t know.” I’d never even thought about that. “Do you know if the city has any standing spells here?”
“I can look into it. The company that owns the lot next to me went bankrupt. I’m thinking about buying it, though I don’t know what I’d do with it.”
“Open a bakery?” I suggested.
“Like I need two businesses to run.”
“You could always rent the place out to the ghost chasers.” I popped the last of the scone in my mouth.
Grant’s eyes went wide. “That’s a fabulous idea.”
“Wait—I was joking.”
“No. It’s good. It’s really good. They’re looking to move out of their place—too small and not enough . . . you know . . .”
“Decay?”
“History. They were saying they wanted to move closer to the older part of town. This whole block’s been trying to go high-end for years.” He winced. “It hasn’t caught on, which is fine with it me. I like things the way they are.”
“And you think bringing in people who run around doing seances is going to bring the property value up?”
“Séances.” He shook his head. “You really don’t know anything about this, do you? But even if it were séances, do I look like I care?” He grinned and I could tell that no, he most certainly did not.
“Well, good luck with that. If things go well, maybe they can come de-ghost my apartment.”
I was joking around.
Grant didn’t buy it.
“Why? You seen ghosts there too? Ghost magic?”
“No. Not really. Not like here on the street. It’s complicated. And what do you mean ghost magic? There’s no such thing.”
“Those graffiti things you said you saw, that appeared and disappeared. Ghost magic, right? Talk to me.”
I could talk to him about the magic near his place, could talk to him about the ghosts on his street, but telling him about my dad, in my apartment bathroom, touching me when I was naked and alone in the dark . . .
Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen. All I wanted to do about that was find some way to scrub the memory of it, and the echo of his touch, out of my brain and off my skin. Too bad magic didn’t erase the memories I wanted to get rid of.
“I don’t really want to get into it, okay?”
And he must have caught the “please” in my tone because he reached over and patted my hand.
“Does it have something to do with this?” He gently brushed the back of my right hand and the whorls of metallic color that webbed there.
“Maybe.”
“That happened when you left town for a while, right? The coma and all?
”
I nodded.
“When you feel like talking about whatever happened in your apartment, or anything else, you come back here, okay?”
“If you keep making these scones, I will.”
But he wasn’t about to be brushed off so easily. “Allie. Listen to me now. I want you to know you can come here anytime. No questions asked. I have a place you could sleep—alone—if you need it. And I know how to keep my mouth shut about people’s . . . business.”
“Thank you,” I said.
That, Grant accepted. He probably thought it was sincere. He had good instincts.
“Okay, so how about I get you a refill on that coffee?”
“That’d be great.”
He gave my hand one last pat and then pushed up on his feet and walked off as the door opened.
I don’t usually pay attention to opening doors. Not really. I mean, sure, when I was running for my life I jumped at every creak of door and slide of window. But that was over with now. This was my town. I was safe. Except for the released felon, the cursed cop, and the ghosts, everything was peachy.
Or not.
It wasn’t just one person coming through the door; it was a half dozen, split four men, two women. They were all dressed in Sunday morning churchgoing clothes even though it was not Sunday. They all carried that earnest sincerity of those who feel a deep need to spread the Word.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. The last thing I needed to worry about were churchgoing people. They looked around the room as they took off their coats and hung them on the coatrack by the door. They were chatty, smiling, and making the “isn’t this nice” noises of people discovering a new pleasant place to hang out.
But another movement caught my eye. A man sitting in the far corner of the building lifted his cup of coffee toward me in a sort of salute. I’d say he was in his mid-fifties, and he was bald except for a ring of hair that may have once been blond and was cut short behind his temples. He wore bifocals and a nice dark brown sweater. He didn’t take a drink of his coffee and didn’t look away from me. He just sat there and smiled and smiled.
Creepy.
People moved between our line of vision, so I went back to finishing my coffee. Since I’d told Detective Stotts I’d Hound for him tonight, I also needed to score a phone and call Violet to cancel our dinner date. Now that I thought about it, I wondered if Pike could tell me something about those weird glyphs. I still had the card he’d given me for the Pack. He said if I called, they’d tell me when they were meeting next. I pulled my cell out of my pocket, hoping it might have miraculously repaired itself, but no. Still dead. Maybe Grant would let me use the phone here.
A man walked up to my table.
“Good morning,” he said as though he knew me and I should be glad to see him.
I looked up. Yep, it was the creepy guy from across the room. Didn’t recognize him.
“So good to see you,” he said. “My name’s Frank. Dr. Frank Gordon. I believe we are neighbors.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Third floor of the Forecastle. I just moved in. I thought I saw you leave the building this morning. You’re an early riser, Ms. . . .”
“Beckstrom,” I said. “Allie Beckstrom.”
He held out his hand, and I reached over and shook it.
Frank’s gaze shifted from my face to my hand. He tipped his head back so he could gaze through the bottom half of his bifocals. His smile went hard, his teeth clenched, and he held his breath. Surprised. Then, quietly, “Remarkable.”
Okay, I was done with him staring at my hand like it was fresh meat. I tugged free of his grip.
“A remarkable tattoo, Ms. Beckstrom. Where did you go to find such an . . . unusual design?”
“The country,” I said. “It was nice meeting you, Dr. Gordon, but my friend will be here . . .”
“Magic, isn’t it? You do know that, don’t you? I make it a hobby to study such things.” He hadn’t moved, hadn’t stopped smiling, but everything else about him—the sudden stiffening of body language, the tone of hunger and anger just behind his pleasant words—meant I had a problem on my hands.
Well, not on my hands themselves, though that was also true, what with the marks and all, but the current problem was Dr. Creepy here.
I knew when things were edging toward violence of some sort—physical, magical, verbal. I checked his hands for weapons: a knife, needle, or gun. Nothing. But you didn’t need anything more than your fingers and a few well-spoken words to draw on magic.
And magic could do a lot of harm. Trust me on this.
I inhaled to catch his scent—the smell of almonds and sweat with just a hint of licorice—and then I stood because I wasn’t about to get into a fight sitting down.
“Hey, Allie,” Grant called out, cheerful and loud.
I didn’t look over, didn’t look away from Dr. Gordon. Dr. Gordon didn’t look away from me either.
Grant, however, wasn’t caught in the showdown. He strode right over, all casual and cowboy, and leaned his entire body between us while he placed a fresh cup of coffee on the table.
“Here’s your refill.” He turned and stuck his hand out. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He and Dr. Gordon were close enough, there was no way Dr. Gordon could get out of the handshake. And Grant had wide enough shoulders that he pretty much blocked my view, breaking off our glaring match. “Name’s Grant. Grant Rhines. I’m the owner of this coffee shop.”
Dr. Gordon had to take a step back to shake Grant’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rhines. I’m Dr. Gordon.”
Thank you, Grant. I did not want to become someone’s pet project. Didn’t want the doctor to get some kind of idea that he could take me apart to find out how I could hold magic in my body when no one else could. It was time for me to get out, move on, be done with being here.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you in my fine establishment before, have I, Doctor?” Grant asked.
“As I was saying to Ms. Beckstrom before you interrupted us, I’m new to the neighborhood.” He wasn’t even trying to be pleasant anymore. “Now, if you’ll excuse us?”
“No,” I said. I stepped out from where I was closed off by Grant and stood slightly behind him because there wasn’t any more room to go past him unless I forced the issue. “We’re done talking. Grant, could I use your phone?”
“Sure thing.” He didn’t move or look away from Dr. Gordon. “I’ll show you where it is. Can I get anything else for you, Doctor?” he asked.
Dr. Gordon smiled, instantly a mild-mannered nice guy again. And it freaked me the hells out that he could do that—look so completely harmless in the blink of an eye.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Rhines. You’ve done enough. Thanks for the offer.” He stepped aside and glanced at me. “I’ll see you soon, Ms. Beckstrom. Have a nice day.” He turned and ambled over to the door. He paused and pulled a heavy coat and umbrella off the rack. Grant and I stood there, watching him until he was out the door and onto the street.
“Great guy. You really know how to pick ’em, don’t you?” he said.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” I said. “Can I really use your phone?”
“Sure, sure.” Grant strolled even farther to the back of the shop, and I followed him through a door to the left. He pulled out a set of keys, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Beyond the door were nice, carpeted stairs going down.
“A dungeon?”
“I did mention the Shanghai Tunnels, right?” He moved past me and started down the stairs. “Just give that door a good tug behind you. Wouldn’t want a customer tripping down here.”
I hesitated. I mean, how well did I really know Grant? All I had to go on was his word. The whole birthday thing could be a lie.
“Mind if I leave it open?” I asked.
“That’s fine. I’ll be back up in a sec.” He had turned the corner, out of eyesight from the top of the stairs. “Phone’s here on the table. Allie?”
> I took a deep breath. Hounds are not trusting people. But Grant had given me more than his word. He’d gone out of his way to run interference with Dr. Nosy up there. And besides, we were friends. I think. I shut the door and clomped down the stairs. “I’m leaving wet footprints on your carpet,” I said. Then, “Wow.”
The room opened up at the bottom of the stairs and was most definitely not a dungeon. A full apartment, it was nicely furnished in leather and linens, with accents of deep blues and greens and lights set along the walls and ceilings in just the right way to make it feel airy and spacious instead of like the brick basement it was.
