Phantom Kiss

by Chloe Neill

  Maybe I could use that. “You’re a buffoon in an awkward suit! We don’t need your jiggery-pokery here!”

  The ghost’s image jerked, as did his expression. And that hiccup was enough to allow me to escape his grip. I kicked free, climbed to my heavy and numb feet, and scrambled away.

  “That your attempt at period-appropriate insults?” Catcher asked when I reached him.

  “Yep. Did I pull it off?”

  “You did not,” Catcher said good-naturedly, the buzz around him increasing as he gathered magic for another throw. “So let’s meet magic with magic.”

  Enraged again, the ghost moved forward. But Catcher bided his time.

  “Wait for it,” he said quietly as I clenched my fists beside him, preparing for a strike.

  Catcher waited until the ghost was only a foot from us, and we could all but see the fury boiling in his eyes. Catcher drew the magic into his hand, fashioning a glowing blue orb. But instead of throwing it, he shoved it at the ghost, the muscles in his arms taut and shaking as he pushed the power into the apparition’s chest.

  The ghost screamed and staggered back into the middle of the room. Blue and white light—Catcher’s magic mixed with his—burst from his body. The lines and shadows that made up his form splintered like jagged glass, and he shattered into the air like fireworks, the sparks fading to yellow as they floated to the floor, then disappeared.

  The buzz of magic dissipated, as did the unnatural chill. But we waited a solid minute in the warming silence, just in case.

  “I think he’s gone,” Catcher said.

  Breath heaving, my skin slicked with sweat despite the cold, I looked at Catcher, checking visually for bumps, bruises, lacerations. He was streaked with magical char and brick dust, but he looked otherwise whole.

  “I’m all right,” he confirmed. “You?”

  “Leg is freezing. But I’ll hold.” We were the only ones left in the tunnel. “Everyone else made it out. Is he gone gone?” I asked. “Or just gone?”

  “I doubt he’s gone gone, to use your technical phrasing. My magic would have dispersed his energy, but that’s probably just temporary.” He glanced over my shoulder. “And you might have another, more immediate problem.”

  I followed the line of his gaze.

  Half of Ethan’s wine racks were on the ground, bottles smashed. Wine dripped from the shelves, poured across the floor in mulberry rivulets, was splattered across the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of very expensive and wasted alcohol.

  “On the upside,” Catcher said, putting a hand on my shoulder, “I think you got your money’s worth from the investigators. They definitely found a ghost.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But we still have to bust it.”

  • • •

  Delia diagnosed Luc with two broken ribs and a concussion, and settled him in his room.

  The investigators walked in a silent, single-file line down the sidewalk and toward the street, the exuberance they’d carried into the House now gone.

  Matt, predictably now, studied his machine. Roz and Robin glanced back over their shoulders, aimed angry looks at us on the steps. We’d broken up their party, even if to save their lives, and they were pissed.

  “In their position,” I said, “I’d probably be angry, too. I don’t know how often they’re able to get up close and personal with actual ghosts. This probably would have been a coup for them.”

  “I understand their frustration,” Ethan said. “But they’ve been compensated for their time.” He glanced at me. “They’re humans. After seeing Margot hurt, I shouldn’t have let them into the House. I certainly couldn’t allow them to stay after Luc went down.” He frowned, seemed to struggle with the memory of Luc’s attack.

  “It’s easy to say that in hindsight,” I said, “what we should have done. But their job is to evaluate, and since Annabelle can’t do it, we weren’t left with many options. We hired the experts.” And we’d still need to deal with ghostly removal, one way or the other. “Sorry about the wine,” I offered.

  “It’s insured,” Ethan said. “So that’s something. Although the ’49 Sauterne will be difficult to replace.”

  “1949?” I asked hopefully.

  “Add a century to that,” Ethan said.

  I winced. “I owe you,” I said.

  Thankfully, I’d have an eternity to pay him back.

  5

  Mallory, Catcher, and I went back to Ethan’s office, taking seats while Ethan played host, handing out bottles of water and blood from his built-in refrigerator.

  “The floor is open,” he said, walking back to the sitting area. He stood in front of us with crossed arms and a dour expression. This particular Master and captain of his ship did not like being out of control.

  “Let’s start with the ghost,” I said. “He didn’t look anything like the photo of Mickey Riley we saw earlier.”

  “No,” Catcher agreed. “If the FBI’s mug shot is accurate, and I tend to believe they’d get something like that right, that wasn’t him. And not just the wrong man—the wrong clothing, wrong style, wrong era. That wasn’t Mickey Riley.”

  “But that was definitely Mickey Riley’s grave,” I said. “We’ve seen the burial records.”

  “I am officially confused,” Mallory said.

  She wasn’t the only one.

  “No other grave was disturbed at Almshouse?” Ethan asked.

  Catcher shook his head. “No.”

  I tapped fingers against my knee, glanced at Ethan. “Is there any other reason to think some different ghost would be haunting Cadogan House?”

  “Before Margot’s attack, there’d been paranormal activity in this House—other than our own—since we’ve been here,” Ethan said. “And I don’t know of any before we moved in, either.”

  “What about the tunnels themselves?” I asked. “Any notable events there?”

  “None on our watch, and the city didn’t keep separate records of tunnel incidents per se. Given how dangerous they are and how many sheer miles they cover, it’s quite possible someone died there. But we don’t know of any deaths or trauma that would prompt a disturbance like this.”

  “Then we’re back to Riley,” I said. “We question all presumptions.” I looked at Catcher. “You said his remains are still with the medical examiner’s office?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because they can probably verify whether it’s actually Riley or not.”

  Catcher just blinked. “Damn. I should have thought of that.” He pulled out his phone, sent a message.

  “No worries, Big Papa,” Mallory said, patting his arm. “You helped train her, after all.”

  I could have lived an eternity without hearing her call him that, Ethan said.

  No argument there.

  “I wish Annabelle was here,” I said, and looked at Mallory and Catcher. “You know she’s barred from working outside her assigned graveyards?”

  Their expressions were equally flat. Neither had much love for the Order, although they’d made some inroads there since Mallory’s Unfortunate Era of Evilness and her subsequent founding of Sorcerers Without Borders.

  “Yes,” Mallory said primly. “That’s one of the post-Sorcha ‘reforms.’” Her air quotes were slow and dramatic, delivered with blue fingernails that matched her hair.

  “I don’t mind the Order emphasizing specialization,” Catcher said. “I’m a weapons man, after all. But her specialization is the deceased. If she’s working that kind of magic, she should be able to work it wherever she’s needed.”

  “And there’s no one on the sorcerer side to fill the gap,” Mallory put in.

  Catcher’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out. “Well. We just got an invitation to visit the forensics lab.”

  “Oooh,” Mallory said. “That’s creepy and interesting.
I’m in.”

  “In the meantime,” I said, “I’ll put on my research hat, see what I can find out about Riley and his crew and our mysterious and hateful stranger.” I felt a frisson of scholarly anticipation.

  “It’s what you’re best at.”

  I gave Ethan an arched eyebrow.

  That I’m willing to discuss in public, he silently said. You are a woman of many talents.

  Much better.

  • • •

  I camped out in my favorite room in the House: the two-story library. The books were plentiful, the ceiling high above the wrought-iron balcony that ringed the second floor. I sat at a library table with a computer and a spread of notebooks and pens that would have made a collector jealous. And then I set out to find a ghost.

  Until we learned otherwise, I had to assume the records were correct and the remains were Mickey Riley’s body, so I researched him further, looking for some connection between the gangster and the apparent poltergeist that had disturbed the House.

  Riley had been a bully with a hard-on for violence, theft, and the gangster lifestyle. I found several photographs of him in the Tribune—posing with cronies in restaurants, standing in crowds near Capone, lounging with molls in nightclubs where gin and jazz had flowed. He seemed to sneer in every picture.

  But I didn’t find evidence he was anything other than a run-of-the-mill asshole, or any sign he’d owned something worth opening a grave for. He wasn’t suspected in any jewelry heists, for example, and while he’d been convicted of grand larceny, it was for boosting a car undoubtedly long gone.

  His fate didn’t offer any clues, either. He’d been killed by his cellmate, who’d used a shiv carved from a wooden tongue depressor. Since his cellmate had been a rival, the murder didn’t seem unusual in context.

  I scanned biographies of the other members of Capone’s gang—the accountants, cops, and muscle—and found no one else who looked like our ghost.

  Since Riley was coming up a dead end—pun intended—I tried to brainstorm, ended up looking for instances of other graves beyond Almshouse being opened or disturbed, whether or not skulls were removed. I didn’t find anything recent, which Jeff confirmed in a quick text.

  Fewer graves disturbed was obviously good, and not just because it indicated we had a perp with a specific target rather than someone who made a habit of opening graves. Or they just hadn’t gotten started in earnest.

  Frustrated, I pushed back the laptop, rubbed my temples.

  Maybe Riley and our ghost weren’t connected. Maybe it was just a coincidence a ghost had shown up at Cadogan House the same night Annabelle had sensed one being released. But why now? If the ghost I’d encountered in the tunnel was as old as he’d looked, why pick this time and this place to haunt? He didn’t seem to have a specific vendetta against Cadogan House—at least not that Ethan or Malik could name—which made his appearance here that much weirder.

  The door opened with a soft thush. I looked up, watched Ethan walk inside, power and confidence in every step. While I’d been scanning the Internet, he’d probably been reviewing budgets, evaluating security reports, making political moves. The authority showed in his long-legged stride, the set of his jaw, the authority that marked him.

  “Hello, Sentinel.”

  “Hello, Sullivan.”

  His smile was quick and satisfied. “Have you made any progress?”

  “Not a bit.” I told him what I’d learned—or rather, what I hadn’t.

  “You’ve eliminated dead ends,” he said. “That’s something.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to check on Luc. Would you like to take a break?”

  I glanced at the clock, realized I’d been sitting in the chair for nearly two hours. I rose, stretched my arms and back. “I would.”

  He took my hand, and we walked to the door, then down the hallway that led to the second-floor quarters of the vampires who lived in Cadogan House.

  “I feel like a depressed drug-sniffing dog,” I said.

  “I look forward to hearing your explanation for that simile.”

  “They apparently get bummed if they don’t find contraband every once in a while, so handlers plant things for them to find.”

  “Ah,” Ethan said. “You need to find something to keep going.”

  “That’s about it.”

  He raised our joined hands to his lips, kissed my knuckles. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

  • • •

  Lindsey’s room was an eye-achingly-bright amalgamation of paint, posters, and fabric. Little wonder that even though they spent most nights together, Luc had chosen to recuperate in his room.

  It was surprisingly sedate for a man with so many pop culture obsessions. Being captain of the guards, Luc had a room that was a little bigger than the standard dorm-sized unit. There was enough space for a bed and a good-sized sitting area, with a couch and television on one side and doors to a bathroom and closet on the opposite wall. The furniture was dark wood and masculine, the fabrics dark and muted. A bookshelf was lined with books and a collectibles from Luc’s various fandoms.

  I guess I expected a mock-up of a Wild West cathouse, I told Ethan as we walked to the bed, where Luc lay in tasteful pinstripe pajamas. I don’t know who he is anymore.

  Ethan didn’t quite manage to hold in a chuckle. He is a many-faceted jewel.

  “Have you come to praise me?” the jewel asked, eyes closed. “Not to bury me?”

  “We’ve come to see if you’ll still stand as captain or if I need to open applications.”

  Luc cracked open a suspicious eye. “Here I am, Liege, busted up because I took a hit for the team, and you’re making jokes like that.”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked him.

  He closed his eyes again. “Ribs ache. Migraine is a bitch, as is the vertigo. I’ll heal, Delia says, but not fast enough to suit me. It might take a couple of nights. And another pint or two of ice cream. Lindsey’s in the kitchen as we speak.”

  “Chocolate therapy is a tried-and-true method,” I said.

  “I certainly hope so,” he said. “You want to fill me in on what happened down there?”

  We gave him the rundown. Ethan was generous about my skills in the battle, even though he hadn’t actually seen any of it.

  Lindsey came in with a smile, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and a spoon. I realized I was hungry, might have whipped it out of her hand if it hadn’t been intended for a wounded soldier. And still I thought about grabbing a pint before heading back to the library.

  “There’s a ghost in Cadogan House!” Luc said as Lindsey approached him. His eyes, I realized, had gone a little hazy.

  “It’s the drugs,” Lindsey said. “Took one for the pain and vertigo right before I went downstairs, and it’s probably hitting him.”

  “Maybe it’s just all a big mistake,” Luc said, smiling goofily. “Maybe we’re all just crazy.”

  “We may be crazy,” Ethan said, worry furrowing his brow. “But there’s no mistake. A specter is haunting our halls, and I want it gone.”

  My phone rang, and I pulled it out, checked the screen. It was Annabelle. Concern lit through me immediately. I turned away from the bed, answered it.

  “I’ve found another grave,” she said.

  • • •

  We didn’t want to leave the House. But we didn’t feel like we had much choice.

  Kelley, another guard, was in charge of the corps while Luc was down. Since Catcher and Mallory were at the medical examiner’s office, my grandfather and Jeff would meet us at Almshouse Cemetery. Again.

  This was becoming an unfortunate habit.

  Annabelle stood outside the gate, leaning against her car in jeans, boots, and a dark structured tank top. She looked absolutely furious. She was gorgeous in her anger, her eyes nearly glowing with it. Put a
sword in her hand, and she’d have made a fantastic vampire.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” Ethan said when we climbed out of the car.

  Annabelle’s nod was as fierce as her ensemble. “This guy is starting to piss me off.”

  My grandfather pulled up behind us in the van, and he and Jeff joined us.

  “Another skull stolen?” my grandfather asked.

  “Not quite yet,” Annabelle said. “Let me show you.”

  We walked to a different part of the cemetery, but it bore the same mix of old graves, industrial markers, and minimal landscaping. We traveled more slowly this time, matching my grandfather’s speed. He’d been injured in a battle with anti-vampire marauders, and although he’d healed a lot, the attack had knocked away a bit of his sprightliness.

  “What section is the grave in?” I asked, trying to recall the plot map I’d reviewed.

  “It’s from the same era as the last one,” Annabelle said. “Twenties and thirties.”

  I nodded, wondered if that signified anything.

  She stopped when we reached a new pile of dirt, a new rectangular hollow beside it. The same type of metal marker, this one bearing 4-CCU78-443. The bones were jumbled in their wooden coffin but didn’t seem to have been moved around, or at least not overly so.

  “I interrupted him,” Annabelle said.

  “Talk about burying the lede,” Jeff said, eyes wide.

  “You interrupted him?” my grandfather prompted.

  “I was concerned the magic would create a spiritual cascade—call back even more spirits than they’d intended. So I was patrolling the grounds again.” She pointed to the east, to the crest of a low hill. “I came over that hill, saw the dirt, realized the grave had already been dug up. When he moved to climb down into it, I called out. I figured he was about to start stealing.”

  My grandfather nodded. “Quite likely. Did you see any accomplices?”