“I—” She dropped her eyes.
“Don’t lie to me, Clare. Not now, not ever. And don’t you try and hide problems from me again. If you do, we’re over. We are a team.”
She paled. A stricken, guilty look washed over her face, then her hazel eyes turned more amber than green and flashed fiery emotion at him. She tossed her head and though he thought she meant her tone to be as icy as any ghost, her words throbbed with hot passion. “Turnabout is fair play, isn’t it? Didn’t we nearly break up because you couldn’t let me in to help?” She stabbed a finger at him and he actually rocked back on his heels, but managed to keep his cop manner on. The one that should have disquieted her, but didn’t.
Because she knew him too well, knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t walk away? No. He’d fight for her, insist on fighting her problems with her.
Knew he loved her, though he hadn’t said the words.
“Not a good thing, to lie to your lover,” he said softly. “I thought we had an unspoken agreement that we wouldn’t do that.” He paused three beats. “Because we’re both honorable people.”
She swayed. Then, to his horror, her eyes filled with tears. He’d rarely seen her cry, and she didn’t use tears as a weapon.
“What, I’m not allowed to be weak?” she snapped, and dashed more tears from her eyes. “Not allowed to be scared and confused? It’s only been twenty-seven days since I first started seeing ghosts. Since my life fell apart around me. I don’t adjust that well. You think I should be totally accepting of the destruction of my life in a month?”
“We’ve managed. Together, we’ve managed. When I’ve . . . faltered, you’ve been there, and you can count on me. Just don’t lie. What’s going on, Clare?”
She sat back down. Her face had gone more masklike than he cared for, and she picked up her cup with both hands. “My wound hurts, especially around ghosts.” She patted Enzo’s head twice. The phantom dog whined. “I can’t really tell whether it’s healing or getting worse.” Lips compressed, she shook her head.
Keeping his gaze on her face, Zach said, “We should talk to the Other about this.”
She made a disgusted noise. Zach understood she didn’t want to, but of all the beings involved, the Other might have the answers they needed. Zach stood, unyielding, for a full minute.
Clare drank more of her coffee, then said, “Very well.”
He walked over to her, not hiding his limp, leaned against the arm of her chair, and stroked his hand down her wavy brown hair as her head bent.
“You’re a brave woman, Clare.”
She shrugged.
And we are a team, Enzo said. Zach felt a slight coolness near his legs, looked down, and noted Enzo sat on his feet, much of his body in Zach’s lower legs. Yeah, he could see the Lab now, even without touching Clare, but experienced no icy touch the way Clare did.
“We need to speak with the Other, Enzo,” Zach said, looking into the foggy depths of the dog’s eyes.
Enzo tilted his head toward Clare. You think so, too, Clare?
“I suppose,” she muttered, then she sat straight. “No, that’s hiding some more. Yes, by all means, let us further discuss this matter with the Other.”
The density of the dog increased and it moved away from Zach to sit in the small space in the middle of the room, head lifted arrogantly, nostrils flaring.
I didn’t think it would be long before you called on me, the Other said with extreme snottiness in his voice. Since I sensed that you received your next project and you can’t seem to handle even the easiest transition without bothering me.
“Will I continue to receive cases every few days?” Clare demanded.
Time has little meaning, the Other said sententiously.
“That’s not an answer,” Clare said. “As far as I’m concerned, my cases are coming too quickly.”
The Other’s derisive snort echoed throughout the room.
“That’s not why we requested you come,” Zach stated. He didn’t care for the stiffening delineation of the Lab’s muscles, the larger than usual teeth as the Other lifted its upper lip when it glared at him.
You are still with Clare?
“Tell us about Clare’s spectral wound,” Zach said.
Glancing at Clare, then fixing his focus back on Zach, the Other said, I don’t know why you, Clare, can’t peruse your great-aunt’s journals on such matters instead of importuning me.
A quick catch of breath from Clare and she angled her body toward the Other. “Did Great-Aunt Sandra have such a wound, too?”
The dog’s body rippled, neck to butt. So I believe. Such harm can be incurred when dealing with recalcitrant ghosts.
“Oh.” She sighed, long. “Ohhh.” She leaned back in the chair, shoulders sagging with relief. Clare’s great-aunt had lived a good, long life. Sounded like good news to Zach, too, but he wanted more details.
“How long will it take to heal?” Zach asked.
The teeth appeared again. Time has little meaning.
“Will it get worse as Clare interacts with ghosts? How can we speed the healing?”
I do not answer to you, man, the Other said, and vanished.
“Wait!” Clare called, a second too late. Enzo rose to his feet and wagged his tail, his eyes a paler shade of smoke.
Clearing her throat, Clare said, “Enzo, do you have any lingering notion of what the Other was thinking before he left? Any more information?”
I’m sorry, Clare, no.
“But Great-Aunt Sandra had a wound at one time.” Clare rubbed her temples. “Another thing I need to find in her journals. I haven’t had as much time as I wanted to transcribe them and organize them, let alone cross reference the entries.”
Enzo crossed over and sat next to Clare. I wasn’t with my friend Sandra then. Or if I was, I was only a live dog, and didn’t know nothing about ghosts.
“That’s okay, Enzo. I love you.”
I love you, too, Clare. And I love you, Zach.
“Likewise,” Zach said, but the discussion with the Other irritated him. “We don’t know enough.”
“No, and I doubt if I—we—summoned the Other again, he would come, or if he came, he would say anything useful.” Clare stood, took her and Desiree’s cups to the kitchen, and washed them.
Maybe I can ask around about hurts like yours, Enzo offered. Maybe Caden’s new spirit dog in Creede knows more than I do. I haven’t had time to talk to her much. Enzo pranced around, through furniture.
“Her,” Zach murmured.
“Go ahead.” Clare waved southwest in the general direction of Creede, about a five hours’ drive away.
Enzo blurred into a gray-and-white streak as he left.
Clare smiled after him until she noticed that Zach blocked the doorway from the kitchen to the living room. “I don’t like this whole spectral wound business,” he said.
“You think I do?” She put her hands on his shirt, rubbed up and down once—like she had with Enzo?—and pushed, so he stepped back.
“All I can do right now about that wound is look through Sandra’s journals. Again. If you recall, her experience with an evil ghost amounted to a half-page story. Not a lot of help last week. There’s no knowing whether whatever she wrote about non-physical wounds inflicted by ghosts will be at all useful either.”
“I get it,” he said, and moved restlessly. “But I don’t like letting an issue like this drop.”
“Desiree and Mrs. Flinton will look into it for me—us.”
“I don’t trust them as much as I do us.”
“I hear you.” She paused. “But we’ve done all we can for now.”
“And you’re tired of the topic.”
“That’s right. It’s a relief that Great-Aunt Sandra once had a wound like mine, too.”
“Okay. So
you’re going to look through your aunt’s journals on this. Today.”
“I do have Texas Jack—”
“You talked to him this morning. If you want to go up this evening for the poltergeist show, let me know and I’ll join you.”
She stilled. “I see. You want me to ask Desiree for a ride home from here?”
“I could drop you at home before I head for the office. Going to dig into various backgrounds. It’s better I access some databases under Rickman’s supervision, or have him get me in. I texted him earlier.”
“Oh. Looking into the background of Maurice Poche?”
“That’s right.”
“Kurtus Welliam?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
He shook his head. “Clare, I know pretty much everything I need to about you.” He certainly knew how great she looked naked, how her skin felt against his palms, how her lips tasted.
“And you probably did a background check on me when we first met,” she said in a resigned tone that tugged the truth straight from his gut—or maybe his heart.
“I knew all I needed to know about you, Clare Milena Cermak, from the moment I looked into your eyes.” Her intriguingly shadowed eyes, which had drawn him, made him feel like she could understand him at some deep, instinctual level.
And that he hadn’t even admitted to himself.
Clare relaxed her stance, took a step toward him. The fine muscles of her face eased and the corners of her mouth tilted slightly upward. “But you ran my background anyway.”
Zach raised his hands. “I didn’t have to. Rickman did it for me.”
Now he saw a full smile. “Of course he did.”
“I will remind you that I asked you to look online for info about me.” He couldn’t keep from leaning a little on his cane. This woman, this lover, had been one of the few who’d never glanced at his crippled leg. At least he’d never seen her, sensed her, doing that—a miracle. He hadn’t wanted to tell her that particular story, how he’d made a bad mistake that had gotten him shot below the knee, and destroyed his career along with his peroneal nerve.
But he had ended up telling her some of his stories. Had listened to hers. “When did you look up my stuff?” he asked.
She flushed slightly more, as if recalling the videos online of the aftermath of the shooting. A TV crew had been close to the scene. Last time Zach had checked, the videos were still available on the net.
“I don’t recall when I, uh, checked you out,” Clare said.
“Not the night of the day we met, when I told you to?” he asked, knowing the answer that continued to warm him. She’d trusted him, thought more of him in person than any images and words or events she’d seen on the Internet.
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t search for data on you that night.”
“Or for several days afterward?”
Clare spread her hands. “Not that I recall.” Her eyes met his. “It didn’t matter.”
His shoulders relaxed, though he kept his expression serious. “We know each other, Clare.” Almost, he told her that he loved her, but she’d withdrawn a little. He wouldn’t use that to lure her back into a better frame of mind with him.
She nodded. “Yes, we know each other.” Lifting her chin, she said, “You’re ready to go, then?”
“Let me get my computer.” He grabbed the briefcase with the notebook in it from the far end of the breakfast bar counter, and saw vulnerability peek through her eyes. “What?” he asked.
“Um, do you have enough clothes at my place . . . at home . . . for work tomorrow, too? Do you want to spend the night with me?”
He took the time to smile slowly at her. “Of course I want to sleep with you. And I’ve got clothes.” So, they’d negotiated, as usual, this bump in their relationship. Their differences made life interesting, and didn’t compare to the amount of stuff they had in common. “My work hours are flexible.”
“I noticed.” She grimaced. “So are mine; definitely not nine-to-five anymore. A lot of overtime.”
“I’m going in today on this freebie . . . ah, pro bono case . . . to keep relations between me, as a rep for Rickman’s agency, smooth with the DPD. He continues to cultivate them to get more investigative talent for the business.”
Clare nodded.
“Don’t know if Rickman has other cases for me or not.” Zach shrugged. “Guess I’ll find out.” He nodded to Clare to head for the exit, and she did, holding the outer door open for him as he set the security alarm then left his apartment. Nice enough and a good guy space, but Clare’s home . . . also really comfortable and not too girly. “I have enough clothes in the closet you gave me at your house.” He didn’t think she checked that closet like one of his former, too obsessive, live-in lovers had. So Clare didn’t know that he’d put in several jackets and some trousers.
As for Clare’s walk-in closet, like the house itself, it had plenty of space for additional things.
She slanted him a look and smiled back at him. “I like having you in my house.” She glanced at the not-so-hidden security camera aimed at the door of his apartment, then dropped back to his far side where he’d block her from the recording and murmured, “And I like you in my bed, very much, Jackson Zachary Slade.”
“Yeah. We’re very good together.”
As they drove away, he saw crows, but they took off too quickly for him to count them. Maybe they were real crows. Maybe.
Chapter 10
With a deep breath and dragging feet, Clare entered the office on the second floor of her home that she’d set up for her ghost seer “gift” . . . work. One wall held a thick corkboard with a mounted map of metro Denver. She’d outlined in red the bad zones thick with ghosts—where she couldn’t drive. She’d also stuck golden pins, only four, of ghosts she’d helped transition, and none of those had been major projects, just phantoms she’d moved on while coming into her gift. That main map dominated, but others hung, too. Of Colorado, of the Old West, and old maps, too.
The room smelled exotic, both from the perfume her great-aunt Sandra—and Clare—loved, and the furniture she’d inherited from her relative. Great-Aunt Sandra had liked burning incense. Straight ahead sat two bookshelves full of her great-aunt’s journals—books the woman had sitting around in every room, much like Clare had clocks, and would write in at whim.
Once more Clare deeply regretted not spending more time with the woman she loved but had considered a flake. Not only had she missed wonderful times with Sandra, but she hadn’t let the woman groom her for this vocation.
Her teeth hurt, and she found she’d been grinding them.
She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to open her old, heavy laptop and look at the pages of the journals she’d transcribed. Sit in the folding chair with a pillow on it.
Who would? It occurred to her that if she made the place more comfortable and less intimidating, reflecting more of her than just her gift, she might feel better about being in the space. And about her gift, and her new vocation. She should swap out this tiny room for the larger one where she’d optimistically set up her accounting business office. She hadn’t had time for more than an easy client or two.
Yes, the other office, with prettier windows and more light, painted a cream-yellow, her favorite cheerful color, with some new art she bought and loved, as well as maps . . . a pretty desk and an excellent ergonomic chair, maybe a soft loveseat, even . . .
A new project, perhaps a new procrastination, but now she didn’t underestimate the mental lift that working in a place she enjoyed being gave her.
Since she’d just moved in three weeks ago, it would be a pain messing with painting and changing furniture around, but she could afford to hire that out instead of doing it herself. She had begun to spend more money on herself—and Zach—and, face it, with the ghost cases coming so quickly, she had mor
e money than time. She couldn’t afford to paint and rearrange furniture herself.
Another steady breath and a determined nod. She must make her workspace more appealing, especially as her business expanded as her name and abilities became more well known. She didn’t like the thought, but believed more publicity was inevitable.
Marching the couple of paces to her great-aunt’s journals, she scanned the colorful backs. If she were Sandra, which might she have used to record a spectral wound? Red-spined, Clare thought, putting a hand to her side and rubbing it, if Sandra hadn’t had another closer.
Sighing, she pulled out three red journals, kept them in one arm, and stuck a packet of multi-colored sticky tabs in her pocket, then scooped up her laptop in the other. She headed downstairs, her feet echoing hollowly on the polished wooden treads. The whole house felt empty without Zach. He really did infuse it with a vital energy.
So she trucked out of her house along a sandstone footpath, through the backyard to the old carriage house, which she’d decided would be her ghost “client” place. Texas Jack had refused to meet her here, but other ghosts hadn’t. She hoped to keep phantoms out of her home.
Yes, this place would be fine to work in . . . in every season but winter. She didn’t see herself using it when she had to shovel a path from the house through the snow, thus the office near her bedroom.
For now, it pleased her, and she set her laptop on the glass bistro table along with the thinner red volumes. She settled into an overstuffed chair that also smelled of Sandra’s perfume, got out the sticky notes, and began to read, tabbing each entry in a color according to subject.
Two hours later, she stood and stretched, glad she’d made it that far through the journal without becoming restless. The stories of the Chicago mobster-era ghosts Sandra had helped transition onward had been interesting, but had barely given Clare any more knowledge of the rules governing her gift, and there was no mention of the spectral wound, either receiving it or dealing with it, or how it had healed.
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