Stumptown Spirits

by E. J. Russell

  “Because of Trent.”

  “Yeah. Because of Trent.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time to tell me everything? Not just the pieces that are convenient or unembarrassing or nonincriminating, but the whole freaking story. Because I’ve got to tell you, after what you just laid on me, anything I imagine is bound to be worse than the truth.”

  Logan ran both hands through his hair. “I doubt that. The truth is fucking horrible.”

  As Logan told Riley the story of his last night with Trent, his shoulders hunched until they were practically up to his ears. He stared down at his hands, and from the occasional awkward pause, Riley could tell he was censoring his words, damn it. Was it on purpose, though, or from his long habit of hiding the details? If the first, Riley needed to call him on it; if the second, though, Riley would have to tease it out of him. Pay attention. There’ll be a test later.

  When Logan described the point when the spirits had become visible, Riley frowned, something snagging at the back of his mind, something critical that he’d missed. If he could just . . .

  Logan slammed his fist into his thigh. “But I swear Balch could see Trent. He stopped and focused on him, stared right at him, before he offered him the gun.”

  The hair on Riley’s neck sprang to attention. “Hold it. Trent displaced Danford Balch?”

  Logan snorted. “Yeah. Leave it to Trent. He’d never settle for being anything less than the star of the show, even if it turned him into a murderer and got him hanged at the end of act three.”

  Riley pressed his fists to his temples. God, and he thought the HttM job threatened to detonate his head. That was nothing compared to this. “Danford Balch has been on the loose for the last seven years?”

  “Yeah. Don’t think he’s had an easy time of it though. He looked like hell on a biscuit.”

  “Holy . . . shit, Logan. You— What the bleeding fuck? You’ve seen Danford Balch? Here? In Portland?”

  Logan leaned forward and grasped the back of Riley’s neck. “Hey. Take it easy. You’ll give yourself an aneurism.”

  Not an aneurism, damn it, but the connections had definitely started clicking in Riley’s brain. “God, Logan. This is . . . this is huge.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You’re right. This isn’t a case of possession. I’m not sure it’s truly a ghost story at all. It makes so much more sense if you think of it as—” Riley jumped up and paced across the shabby room. “Look. When you cut away the loaded words—Witch’s Castle, ghost war—I mean, the Balches and the Stumps had issues, but they never had an actual war. No violent family feud, a la Montagues and Capulets or Hatfields and McCoys. It’s more of a metaphor than a battle reenactment.”

  Logan nodded. “She said she wasn’t sure they were ghosts.”

  “She who?”

  “Marguerite Windflower, psychic counselor.”

  Riley squinted at Logan over his glasses. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish. But she seemed like the real deal, as far as mediums go. She sensed the spirits. Picked out Balch and Mortimer even though the figures weren’t distinct.”

  “Did she have a solution?”

  Logan’s cheek twitched. “Nope. Not ghosts. Nothing she could do.”

  Hello, big fat lie. He’d deal with it later. Now he was in the zone, buzzing with the adrenaline rush of discovery. This is the right trail. I’m sure of it.

  “Think about it. Anna Balch, Cuthbert Stump, the other townspeople—none of them died at the same time or place. Balch wasn’t hanged on the same day he shot Mortimer.” Riley dropped to his knees, rummaged through his messenger bag and pulled out The Golden Bough. “It’s more like a . . . a ritual battle. What Frazer calls a mimic conflict.” He located the page and handed the book to Logan. “Here. See? The battle between winter and summer. The Holly King versus the Oak King. The ducks versus the ptarmigans.”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind. The point is that it’s not like on a battlefield, with the spirits of dozens of people who all died at the same time haunting the place of their death. But those events—Anna and Mortimer’s star-crossed love affair, Balch’s crime and punishment—had huge emotional resonance for everyone involved. Energy like that leaves a . . . a stain. A residue. Especially if so many of the participants had a soul-deep longing for another outcome, the desire to make things right.”

  “Or wanted vengeance.”

  Riley’s elation dimmed at Logan’s terse comment. “That too, but the power of ritual is undisputed. Ask any superstitious hockey player. People engage in rituals because they believe that the actions, the tokens, the trappings, will cause a specific result. They’ll win a game, find a husband, turn back winter. That’s what this is. A ritual battle that arose because of the emotions and desires of people who desperately wanted a different outcome.”

  “Good versus evil?”

  “I don’t think you can make that kind of judgment. Is winter evil? Summer good? For every hockey team that wins, the opposing team has to lose. But win and lose. Love and hate. Life and death.” He nodded at Logan. “Vengeance and redemption. It’s powerful stuff.”

  “Okay. I get it, but so what?”

  “So these ceremonies, the ritual battles, are exaggerated representations of how to satisfy some primal need for the community. But one way or another, they’re driven by belief. By force of will, either of the society or the sacrifice himself.”

  Logan handed him the book, and Riley stuffed it back in his bag. “Belief? In ghosts?”

  “Not that.” Riley knee-walked closer to the recliner and gently placed his hand on Logan’s arm. “Joseph’s family was starving. He wanted those provisions desperately. Trent wanted the ghosts to be real, to be the star.” Riley shrugged. “It must have been enough to trigger the exchange. To let them take their place in the ritual.”

  Logan’s brows drew together, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. I guess that would do it.”

  Riley didn’t trust that calculating look, but he couldn’t stop to call Logan on it, not with an idea hovering at the fringe of his consciousness. Almost got it. Ah. There.

  He tightened his grip on Logan’s arm. “Every ritual has its own power. A life of its own, sort of like the alternator in a car. It generates its own charge, keeps itself going, as long as the initial need is still there.”

  “So to interrupt the ritual, take it down for good . . .”

  “We have to figure out the need and fulfill it.”

  “You think we can do that?”

  “If not us, then who? Max?” Riley shook Logan’s arm, willing him to see. “It’s not just about you or your grandfather or Trent. If it happened before, it could happen again. Think about it, Logan. How long before some poor idiot displaces Mortimer?”

  Logan’s face paled behind his scruff. “Fuck.”

  “Exactly. It has to be stopped.” Riley released Logan’s arm and squeezed his knee. “We have to stop it.”

  Logan stared at his lap, his throat working.

  Riley’s heart sank. He’s going to refuse. He’ll bail again and go all loner knight on me. He sat back, but Logan grabbed his hands, lacing their fingers together, and Riley’s heart rebounded, fluttering against his rib cage.

  “You’re right.” Logan raised his chin and looked Riley in the eyes, his mouth grim. “It’s already destroyed enough people. We can’t let it go on.”

  There was that twitch again.

  He stood, drawing Riley to his feet along with him. “We’ll fix this, but you need to trust me. Trust me to make it right.”

  Riley’s lungs seized. He’d made an extreme tactical error. In that instant, he knew that if they couldn’t find a way to end the ghost war, Logan planned to offer himself in Trent’s place.

  It would be just like him, the stupid noble asshole.

  God. It was bad enough that Logan’s damned savior complex made him ready to take a bullet for his grandfather or Trent or some unknown future victim. Did Riley ha
ve to keep handing him ammo?

  He raised his chin, fixing his gaze on Logan’s face, waiting for the telltale twitch. “The way you trust me?”

  Logan trailed the backs of his fingers down Riley’s cheek. “I trust you. You’re the world’s most stand-up guy.”

  God. Stand-up. One step away from sweet and caring. Riley clenched his teeth against the shiver that threatened from Logan’s continued caress. “I’m not talking about my stupid personality. I’m talking about what I do. What I know. If you can’t trust my intellect—”

  Realization hit him like a boulder launched by a catapult. He gulped and pulled back from that insidious stroke, the familiar wash of shame starting in his belly and working its way up.

  “What’s the matter?” Logan murmured.

  “You don’t think I know what I’m talking about, do you? You think I’m as worthless as Scott does.” And despite her championship, her support, her love, he knew Julie believed he was equally hapless. She humored him, the way Logan was doing now, but her priority was her career. She could afford to encourage his contributions as long as he kept the coffee coming and remembered to order extra mayo on Scott’s turkey club.

  Logan reeled him back with a finger under the collar of his Henley. “If they think you’re worthless, they’re idiots.”

  Riley’s heart thumped like a bodhrán in his chest. Resist. Resist. “Is that why you don’t want me anymore? Because you don’t respect me?”

  The corners of Logan’s eyes crinkled with a suppressed smile, and the dimple quivered in his cheek. “I’m pretty sure we settled the want question the other night.”

  Damn it, where had Logan’s anger gone? His assitude? His douchebaggage? How could Riley fight with a freaking dimple? “I don’t mean like that. Not just to scratch an inconvenient itch.”

  Logan grinned, deepening the damn dimple. “Nothing wrong with scratching an itch. Sure, we’ve got shit to do, but if I know you, you’ve got it half-done already.” He hooked the fingers of one hand under the waistband of Riley’s jeans, behind the belt, and tugged him forward. “So we’ve got time.”

  “T-t-time?” Riley, mesmerized by the scent of Logan’s skin, of soap and leather and a hint of musk, of the way his thumb stroked just to the outside of Riley’s fly, could only try to catch his breath.

  “Riley.” Logan leaned forward, his scruff brushing Riley’s cheek, his breath warm against Riley’s neck. “Take me to your hotel. I can’t stand the idea of making love to you in this mold-pit.”

  “Make love?” Riley pulled back to scan Logan’s face, but couldn’t detect any mockery or contempt in his heavy-lidded gaze. “Not itch-scratching? Did you decide to abandon your quest for meaningless sex?”

  “Sex, yes. Meaningless, no.”

  “Don’t you have that backwards?”

  A slow, sinful smile curled Logan’s mouth. “You know what I mean.”

  “You think I’ll have sex with you?”

  “I know you will.”

  Riley sighed. There were definitely worse ways to distract Logan from getting stupid ideas about martyring himself. “You’re probably right.” He poked Logan in the shoulder. “But you’ll still have to work for it. Let’s go.”

  Since Riley had thrown himself headfirst into this crapfest, the best chance Logan had of protecting him was to stay close. Really close.

  That was his story, and he was sticking to it, damn it.

  Back at the hotel, he crowded against Riley’s back as Riley tried to fit the card key in its slot.

  “Hurry up and open the door if you don’t want me to pants you right here in the hallway.”

  “I’d have better luck if you weren’t humping my ass.”

  “Want me to stop?”

  “Hell no.” The green light flashed, and they staggered into the room.

  Logan locked the door and advanced on Riley. “Clothes off. Now.”

  Riley shucked off his jacket and backed away, a smile playing on his delectable lips. “You sure? Don’t you want something from the minibar first? Snickers? Some overpriced Evian? Cracker Jacks?” Riley waggled his eyebrows. “Nuts and a prize in every . . .” he swiveled his hips in a slow bump-and-grind that triggered an involuntary thrust from Logan’s hardening dick “. . . box.”

  “You know what I want,” Logan growled, shoving the desk chair out of his path, “and it’s not in the damn minibar.”

  “Ah. I think I know. You want to watch TV.” Riley flourished the remote, swinging his other arm wide and making a show of punching a button.

  Logan grabbed the remote, and flung it across the room to clatter against the wall and disappear behind the bed. “I don’t want to watch the damn TV. I want to watch you. Coming. I want to hear you scream my name when I’m buried in your ass. I want to—”

  A burst of pounding on the door cut Logan off midfantasy.

  “Yo, Wiley!”

  Riley bunched his fists in Logan’s T-shirt and tugged him forward, whispering in his ear. “It’s Max. Be quiet. Maybe he’ll go away.”

  “Wiley, you jackass. I know you’re there. I saw your light go on from my room.”

  “Shit,” Riley muttered. “Sorry.”

  He let go, but Logan grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him because damn, he hadn’t done that yet tonight. Lips, tongues, a slight clash of teeth because he was in too much of a hurry for finesse. “Don’t forget the plan. Sex till you scream. Get rid of him.”

  “I’ll try.” Riley returned the kiss, with interest. “But you don’t know Max.”

  More pounding. “Wiley. Open the fucking door.”

  “Christ.” Logan released Riley with one last stroke down his spine and across the curve of his stellar ass. “Let him in before he brings the wrath of management down on us.”

  Riley walked to the door with an awkward stiff-legged gait. He stopped and adjusted his jeans, pulling on the crotch and, judging from the elbow action, repositioning his dick. Logan snorted, even though he wasn’t much better off.

  “Laugh it up, pal.” Riley paused long enough to skewer Logan with a glare. “Tell me how funny it is an hour from now when Max is still yammering at me and your balls are turning blue.”

  As soon as he unlatched the door, it flew open.

  “About time.” Max pushed past Riley, pulling up when he saw Logan standing by the window. “Hey, you’re that bartender. The one who told us—”

  “Yeah.” Logan cleared his throat. He didn’t want Riley to find out how far he’d gone to sabotage the show with his ghost stories, especially since it hadn’t worked.

  “Then you know.” Max’s voice throbbed like a twelve-inch subwoofer. “You know. What. Did. This.”

  Max held up his leather bomber jacket and shook it in Riley’s face. The back was shredded as if someone had taken a meat hook to it. “He told us Portland ghosts were dangerous. Look at this. This can only be a warning from beyond.” His voice rang with the conviction of a Fox newscaster.

  “Or else Wolverine woke up with a fashion hangover,” Logan muttered.

  Riley shot him a quelling glance. “When did you find this, Max?” When Riley had straightened Max’s suite yesterday, he hadn’t made more than a cursory pass through the bedroom because it had appeared undisturbed.

  “This evening. When I . . . Well, never mind. And that’s not all.” He shoved his hand into the pocket of the tattered jacket and pulled out a handful of fabric scraps. “This is what’s left of my hat.”

  Riley checked Logan for signs of guilt or satisfaction, but he only wore the half-pained/half-pissed expression of a man with a hard-on still tangled in his underwear. He was back to his minimum safe arm’s-length distance though. Oh no, wouldn’t do for anyone to see him displaying any inconvenient affection.

  “Did you have the hat and jacket this morning? Any time today?” Riley asked.

  “I crashed all day.” Max’s gaze slid sideways. “Kinda didn’t wake up in my own room, if you know what I mean. Julie . . .�
�� His gaze slid the other direction, and he coughed. “Julie brought me a clean set of clothes. She booked me a session with my personal trainer and then sent me to hang with Scott before dinner.” He clutched the felt confetti to his chest. “Do you know how long it took me to find this hat?”

  “Didn’t Charmaine find it for you?” Riley poked through the remains of the jacket for any telltale clue. If Logan didn’t do it, then who the hell did? Could HttM have picked up a demented fan? Well, more demented than their usual viewer.

  “Yeah, but it took her forever. I’ve been asking for it since our first episode.”

  Julie had told him about that—she called it the Great Hatscapade. The producers had stalled in an attempt to prevent Max from indulging in his Indiana Jones fetish. She said they’d finally given up, citing Chinese water torture.

  “Check out her whereabouts last night,” Logan murmured. “She’s the one with the motive.”

  Riley shot a glance at Max, who was mooning over the remains of his hat. Thank God for self-centered Hollywood tunnel vision. “You’re not helping, Logan.” He lowered his voice to a furious whisper. “And if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the pain in my ass.”

  “Your ass is on my radar, but pain is not part of the plan.” Logan grinned and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Unless you want it to be.”

  A thrill shivered down Riley’s spine. “Um . . . oversharing? We’re not exactly alone here.” Sure, Logan was talking about sex, not love, and this was Max, not the entire population of Portland, but a semipublic declaration was more than he’d ever gotten before.

  “Him?” Logan scoffed. “He doesn’t count. If it’s not about Max Stone, he can’t see it.”

  Riley sighed. He should have known he didn’t have all the nuances of the Rules of Engagement According to Logan figured out yet. Luckily, Logan was right about Max, who was still obsessing over his costume misfortunes.

  “This is— It’s sacrilege.” Max tossed the ex-hat onto the floor and shook the jacket. “A little judicious promo is one thing, Wiley, but—”