The Longest Night Vol. 1

by Various

  Angel Investigations had plenty of enemies…

  Wesley looked for doors, low-hanging fire escape ladders, any possible means of escape, but there was no way out. He reached into the inner lining of his long wool coat, his fingers sliding past the chill wood of the stake he carried to the icy steel of his mystically charged dagger. The new pair stopped just as his fingers closed on the weapon’s hilt, their features hard, their stares penetrating. The slightly bigger of the two, a red-haired guy with acne scars lining his cheeks, circled around Wesley and nodded to the car. “Nice ride.”

  Wesley almost choked on the acrid odor of sweat and grime as the man walked past him. He stepped back and cautiously glanced at the sleek red convertible whose lights drenched the alley, something out of the thirties, a vintage Rolls-Royce perhaps.

  The other one, a dark-haired guy with swarthy skin, said, “Keys right in it. Be pretty tempting to take it out for a test drive, ’cept for one thing.”

  The redhead fixed his narrow gaze on Wesley. “What’d you do with the girl?”

  Wesley let his hand drift away from the weapon. “What did I…?” he asked, momentarily confused. Then he understood. “No, I heard the screams just like you.”

  “Nice try,” the redhead growled, edging closer to Wesley, his huge blunt hands balling into fists.

  “Yeah, mess him up,” his pal urged with a nasty little laugh. “Then he’ll talk!”

  Wesley didn’t have time for this. The woman who had screamed may have been in true danger after all, and whatever made her scream was probably still in the alley with them. He had seen two figures near the car and there may have been more. “Listen, we may all be in trouble here. Now stand back or I’ll be forced to take matters in hand. Trust me, that’s something you don’t want.”

  The college guys laughed so loud they almost drowned out the surprising sound of a high, wilting laugh, and the click-clack of high heels on concrete. Looking beyond the two flatheads who had accosted him, Wesley saw the silhouette of a woman sashaying toward them, easing out of the direct path of the car’s headlights. Wesley gasped as the light washed over her form. She was young, beautiful—and dressed for a costume ball. Her shimmering blue-white gown was gossamer, almost sheer, and its plunging neckline left little to the imagination. The brilliant light caressed the short curly ringlets that were set in an old Hollywood-style bob wreathing her delicate heart-shaped face, and sparkled off the champagne glass she held in her bejeweled hand.

  Wesley jumped as she threw her head back and shrieked bloody murder. The redhead and his bud spun, looking up and down the alley.

  “There it is again,” Red snarled.

  His pal shoved Wesley toward the wall. “Where is she? In the trunk or something, you psycho?”

  Wesley’s heart hammered as he brushed off his coat and stared at the woman who was clearly in no danger of anything except getting a sore throat. What was going on here?

  “She’s…she’s right there!” Wesley stammered, nodding at her.

  The redhead stole a look in the direction of the woman, then whipped around and shook his head. “That’s it. If you’re not gonna share…”

  Wesley’s lips curled up in disgust as he stared into the hard eyes of the men before him. He thought they’d been acting out of chivalry and now saw that he couldn’t have been more mistaken. Yet…why did they act as if the woman wasn’t standing right there?

  “You’re dead,” the redhead hissed as he attacked. Wesley ducked the man’s clumsy swing and smiled as he heard the crunch of a fist connecting with brick. The dark-haired guy rushed him as his buddy howled in pain and Wesley leaped to one side, easily avoiding the brute, who slammed headlong into the wall with a grunt of surprise. Red was on him again, roaring like a mad beast. Wesley slid away from the wall, giving himself plenty of room to work as he brought the man down with a quick combination of jabs and uppercuts, then laid out his buddy with a swift high kick to the side of his skull. Then he turned to the woman, wondering where the other figure he had spied was hiding.

  “Madam, would you care to explain yourself?” Wesley asked as politely as he could through gritted teeth. He was breathing hard; little white puffs of breath exploded into the air before him because of the suddenly freezing temperature. A moment ago, it had felt quite comfortable outside.

  Then again, a moment ago, the woman had not been so close; she should have been freezing in her skimpy dress, yet she didn’t seem at all affected by the cold. Had she somehow brought the chill with her? Wesley had seen stranger things. But if that were so, what did it mean?

  “Would I care to explain myself? No, not especially,” she said. “I prefer to let my actions speak for themselves, confusing as that may be for others. More fun, you see, for me.”

  The woman’s smiling companion finally appeared, strolling up beside her, a glass in one hand, and a bottle in the other. His rugged good looks, complete with dimpled square jaw, slicked-back hair, double-breasted suit with wide lapels, checked tie, and swank vest made him look like he also might have stepped out of a red-carpet gala of the thirties. He crouched, setting his glass and the bottle on the ground.

  “Sweetheart,” the woman said, her gaze fixed on Wes. “It seems that this one isn’t like the others. He can—”

  “One moment.” The man rose, then, holding his hands before him, he slapped them together with a violent crack.“Think you can cheat on me and get away with it?” he threatened in a brutish growl that was at odds with his dandy appearance and the wink he delivered to his companion. “I’ll kill ya! That’s right, kill ya I say!”

  The woman just stared at him.

  “You missed your cue, dear,” he said, raising one eyebrow and frowning slightly. “You were supposed to moan with the slap, like I’d struck you.”

  She sighed. “P. J., perhaps you haven’t noticed, but—”

  “There are no but s when it comes to our sacred calling,” P. J. said.

  The woman sipped again, then set her drink down. One hand on her chest, the other on her forehead in an exaggerated gesture of distress, she rolled her eyes and screamed, “No, no! Please, someone—help me!”

  “I take it that would be my cue to look around foolishly and fall into some bit of mischief you have planned,” Wesley said, crossing his arms over his chest. He saw their chests rise and fall, but no breath left their bodies…apparently for good reason.

  P. J. reeled. “Why…he can see us!”

  “In my line of business, seeing dead people isn’t all that uncommon,” Wesley said. “Unfortunately.”

  The ghosts exchanged knowing smiles.

  “Might as well make the most of it, then,” P. J. said. “Oh, and look out for that—”

  Wesley heard a slight shuffle behind him and a harsh whistle of wind near his ear. He launched himself forward, taking only a glancing blow across the back of his shoulder from the two-by-four one of the college guys had aimed at his head. Caught off-balance, Wesley stumbled and tripped over the bottle P. J. had set down—just before sprawling into and through the ghosts!

  Yet—how could the bottle be corporeal? Wouldn’t the thugs have seen it, as they did the car? Could the ghosts change things from an immaterial to a material state at will? It seemed they could, and that was so much the worse for Wesley. He crashed into the classic car’s grill and fell over the high wide fender as the college guys descended on him.

  P. J. shook his head. “I suppose I really must do something.”

  He gestured—and the wall suddenly came to life, throbbing and twisting until it formed a huge claw that closed over the redhead’s thick arms and hauled him off Wesley, lifting him several feet into the air. The redhead howled in terror as it tossed him a dozen feet, bouncing him off the lid of a garbage bin and sending him rolling to a properly undignified sprawl near the sidewalk.

  “A bit strenuous, that, hard on the old ectoplasm, don’t you know,” P. J. said. “Kat, my dear, would you…”

  She raised her
hands. “Delighted.”

  The second guy gasped as round garbage can lids, bits of pipe, and shards of wood flew at him from every direction, as if he were a living magnet. He backed away from Wesley as the debris stopped just short of walloping him and instead formed into a vaguely human shape and charged him.

  “Wahhhh!” he hollered. He turned his back and ran, tripping and falling and getting a swift boot in the backside from the garbage man for his trouble. He reached his buddy and hauled the redhead to his feet just as the garbage creature fell apart.

  Wesley sat up and looked to the ghosts. His back ached where he had smashed into the car’s grill and his abdomen was tender where he had fallen over the fender. Kat looked as if she might swoon, and P. J. was there, steadying her.

  “Shall we?” P. J. asked.

  Smiling, she nodded, and suddenly they blinked out of existence only to reappear in the front seat of the convertible. P. J. cranked the ignition just as the college guys turned to face them, put the car in drive, and floored it.

  “No, wait!” Wesley called, dragging himself to his feet slowly because of the pain and reaching for the crimson blur that was the ghosts’ car, but he was too late. He felt dizzy from breathing in the car’s exhaust fumes. Honking and wailing, the ghosts tore after Wesley’s attackers, driving them out into the street, leaving them ashen and terrified. They skidded to a stop, then put the car in reverse and glided back to Wesley.

  “Well, hello,” P. J. said. “Seems that’s taken care of.”

  “No need to thank us,” Kat said. “Though it might be nice.”

  Wesley was about to speak when P. J. cut him off.

  “Care to go for a ride?” the ghost asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Wesley said. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

  P. J. grinned. “Well, you know what they say in Hollywood…what’s the definition of enough? A little more.”

  Kat reached out and an invisible force yanked Wesley face first into the convertible. He landed in Kat’s lap, his feet dangling and kicking over the side of the car as it pulled out, his flailing hands soliciting sudden gasps and wicked little growls from the woman.

  Somehow, he got himself sorted out and was soon sitting next to her as the car soared down the L.A. streets, zipping around traffic, ignoring stop signs, and generally making Wes feel like he’d soon be wearing his dinner—provided they didn’t end up wrapped around a telephone pole first. Wesley pulled the collar of his coat up close to his face to protect him from the biting wind as the car sped down the road. The wind gripped his hair as he glanced over at P. J. and Kat. Not only were they unaffected by the strange, sudden cold, but the wind didn’t even muss their hair. It remained salon-styled perfect.

  “You kidnapped me!” he hollered. “Stop here and let me out this instant!”

  The brakes screeched, and only the inhumanly strong grip of the elegantly dressed lady spirit saved Wesley from rocketing through the windshield onto the street ahead.

  “Sorry, old chap,” P. J. said, pointing at the light. “It was red and all.”

  Wes glanced at the rearview mirror and saw headlights coming up behind them and to their left. “Switch, switch, switch!”

  Kat giggled as he passed right through her, sliding toward the driver’s seat. “Whoa, and we barely knew each other!”

  “None of that with me,” P. J. said, vanishing as Wesley eased behind the wheel and reappearing next to the woman. “Now what was that all about?”

  Wesley shook his head. “If I’m indeed the only one who can see you two, then it would appear to any onlookers that this was a driverless car zipping about!”

  “Yes, that’s always a good one!” P. J. said. “Been doing that for decades.”

  Kat smiled indulgently. “The classics never go out of style, not like you, sweetheart.”

  “I’m P. J., and this adorable but very naughty little minx is my eternal burden, Kat.”

  “Charmed,” she said.

  “She just couldn’t grasp the business about till death do we part.”

  “Grasp it?” she snorted. “I grasped it until it was ready to choke.”

  “Not the only one,” he muttered.

  “A single lifetime simply wasn’t nearly enough to properly torture a rake like you.”

  Wesley heard laughter from the car in the next lane. Three very cute women in a black Mustang were checking out the car—and its driver. A bubble-gum chewing brunette in a white stretch top set her chin on her hands as she caught Wesley’s gaze and said, “Hey, handsome, great car!”

  Raising his chin, Wesley ordered himself not to blush. “Um—thanks.”

  The bubble-gum chewer kept grinning. Wesley tried to think of something else to say, but nothing came to mind. Besides, he wasn’t exactly at liberty to flirt. These mad spirits had to be corralled somehow before they caused any more mischief—and there was the decision weighing on him prompted by the letter in his breast pocket.

  “She likes you,” Kat said, tickling the side of Wesley’s stubble-ridden face.

  He swatted her hand away and rubbed his itchy face against his shoulder. “None of that, now.”

  “Life’s short,” P. J. said. “Believe me, I know. Don’t let an opportunity go by!”

  The brunette in the next car blew a bubble. “You listening to a book on tape? Is it something sexy? Your accent sure is and so’s the car. I love convertibles….”

  Come on, he thought, glancing up at the light. Change, change…

  “Why don’t you come on over and we can let your top down?” a decidedly British-sounding voice called from beside Wesley.

  Wesley nearly choked. It was P. J. imitating him! He knew from the unearthly screams and dramatic recitations heard by all in the alley that the ghosts could be heard by others—if they so desired—but not seen. Aghast, he whipped his head to the left and spat out, “Not me, wasn’t me, I didn’t say that.”

  The brunette was still smiling. “That’s too bad.”

  The light changed and the Mustang sped off, leaving Wesley pale and confused. A car horn blared and he got back in gear, guiding the car down Hollywood Boulevard. They passed a handful of Hollywood landmarks and the ghosts seemed entranced by the brilliant facades of the Pig’n Whistle, the Guinness World of Records museum, and the Academy Awards theater. The glaring lights, screeching sounds, and dank, disgusting smells of Los Angeles didn’t bother them one bit. But the jarringly brutal distractions made coming to any decision difficult, and tonight, Wesley had less than an hour to solve an impossible dilemma.

  “All right now, we’ll have to figure out what to do about the two of you,” Wesley said, doing his best to sound in charge.

  Kat’s laugh filled the night. “The way you just let that one slip through your fingers? I think we need to think of something to do with you.”

  “I’m sensing a project coming on,” P. J. said.

  “Goody!”

  Wesley yanked at the wheel, cutting across two lanes of traffic and jamming into a rare parking spot a few blocks down from Mann’s Chinese Theatre. The theater looked packed, even at a distance; the street was choked with police cars, news crews, and spectators. Some event or another must have been going on…not that such frivolities concerned him right now. He sat fuming for several long seconds, then, “That’s it. You two snatched me off the street—”

  “It was an alley, dear boy,” P. J. said. “God is in the details!”

  “The point is, you two are not my problem. I have enough to deal with on my own without worrying about the pair of you.”

  “Want to talk about it, sweetie?” Kat asked, batting her eyes. “We’re terrific listeners.”

  “Absolutely not.” Wesley sniffed…and sniffed again. Kat swayed against Wesley, the heady scent of her perfume making his heart race and his thoughts suddenly scatter. It was strong and fresh, warm and flowery.

  “Do you like that scent?” Kat asked, holding up a little blue bottle sha
ped like a tiny skyscraper. “It’s Je Reviens, 1932. I love it. Jasmine, jonquil, ylangylang…”

  “Don’t forget narcissus,” P. J. said brightly. “It wouldn’t be like you otherwise.”

  “It’s his favorite, too,” she whispered, slipping the bottle into her odd little handbag. It was blue, rose, white, and green, with a silver-plated compact attached.

  “Ah. Well…”

  “Care to indulge yourself in the spirits?” she asked huskily, her gaze traveling the length, width, and height of Wesley’s apparently impressive and clearly appreciated form.

  Wesley didn’t know if he should feel flattered—or appalled. This ghost is getting fresh with me!

  Raising an eyebrow, she purred, “Seriously…when’s the last time you had any?”

  “Um, well, I—,” he stammered.

  P. J. burst into hysterical laughter, spilling his drink on the dash. “Dash it all, young squire, she’s just offering you a sip of her bubbly!”

  Wesley and the woman gasped in unison. She looked away, distressed, offended…and Wesley felt like a fool. Then she fell into her companion’s arms, nearly collapsing with laughter. Wesley only then noticed the glass floated in midair beside the ghosts, gently easing its way around to sail lazily before Wesley’s nose. It smelled richly intoxicating—just like the woman who had offered it to him.

  “I…I…I don’t drink,” Wesley managed. That wasn’t true, of course; Wesley simply didn’t want to risk anything that might impair his abilities to deal with these mischievous spirits.

  “It’s just sparkling cider,” P. J. said innocently. “Come on, dear boy, live a little!”

  Wesley took a deep sniff of the drink and raised an eyebrow at the deep fruity scent of the fizzy concoction. He took the drink and brought it to his lips.

  “I don’t suppose the apples that went into this fell from any particularly famous tree,” Wesley said suspiciously. “The tree of knowledge, perhaps?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’ll be the death of us, I know it.”

  “No, no,” P. J. chortled, “never trust a ghost, quite right, quite right…”