Stumptown Spirits

by E. J. Russell

  “I can handle myself. But you—”

  “Save that for later.” Max tugged his arm away before he could caress Riley’s face. “It’s not like Wiley’s going anywhere.”

  Logan rounded on the asshole. “What did I tell you about showing him some respect?”

  “I love this!” Max crowed. “Let’s go. I’m a strict method actor, and it’s time for serious in-the-field observation. We’re hitting a club.”

  “Remember? Gay?”

  “So we’ll hit a gay club. I need to see you in action.”

  “I never go to gay clubs.”

  “There’s that attitude again.” Max waggled a finger under Logan’s nose. “It’s all in the subtext, man. What you say is ‘I never go,’ but what you mean is ‘I don’t need to.’ And that, my friend, is what I’m talking about.”

  Riley patted Logan’s chest. “Give up. He’s impervious to anything but a bad review. I’ll see you later.”

  Before Riley could follow Logan and Max out of the room, Scott strode back in and grabbed the tub of Red Vines. He pulled out two of them.

  “You.” He pointed at Riley, one string of candy wagging like a lizard’s tongue in the corner of his mouth and the other spouting from the middle of his fist. “Get housekeeping to clean up the meeting shit, but watch ’em. Make double damn sure nobody touches the broken cameras in the equipment suite.”

  “I’ll tell the front desk—”

  “Wait. Got a better idea.” He transferred the second Red Vine from his hand to between his teeth and pulled out his wallet, tossing a couple of bills on the coffee table. “Tip ’em and keep ’em out altogether. You clear up in here.”

  “Scott, I think we can trust housekeeping to do their job.”

  He glared at Riley. “I’m from Hollywood. I don’t trust anybody until the wrap.” He slapped the fresh stack of Max’s head shots that Riley had gotten printed at Walgreens. “You cleaned up Max’s room, right? When you’re done here, go fuck it up again.”

  He left, the tub of Red Vines tucked under his arm like a football.

  Two hours later, still picking scraps of paper off his jeans and sweater, Riley finally made it back to his room. He checked the clock. It was a little late for a call to Florida, but maybe mediums kept evening hours. He could only hope.

  He plonked down in the chair, cracked open his laptop, and dialed the number he’d found online for Marguerite Windflower, psychic counselor.

  “Greetings, pilgrim.” The faint tinkle of wind chimes backed the woman’s plummy tones. “And all the blessings of the season of Samhain.”

  “Uh . . . hello? Is this . . . Marguerite?”

  “I . . . What is it, Hootie? Don’t mumble. Oh, thank Christ, a sane one.” Her voice dropped two octaves and took on a rasp worthy of Tom Waits. “I’ve had my fill of idiots and phonies for the day.”

  “How do you know I’m not . . . um . . . either of those?”

  She snorted a laugh. “Psychic, remember? I know all, see all, all that shit.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But I’ve got an associate with, shall we say, connections. He claims you don’t need the new-age bullshit. So hit me.”

  “Wight.” Riley cleared his throat and shrugged his shoulders to dispel the tingle creeping up his spine. “Right. Well, a couple of years ago, you came to Portland with Logan Conner.”

  “Yeah.” She stretched out the word, infusing it with a boatload of suspicion.

  “You saw the ghost war in Forest Park.”

  “And? Shit. Hold on a minute. Those wind chimes need to fucking die.” After the clatter of the phone being tossed on a hard surface and a brisk tattoo of footsteps, the wind chimes cut out. The footsteps returned. “That’s better. Christ, those things are annoying. So he decide he wants the procedure after all?”

  “The procedure?”

  “Because, I’m telling you, I’m not going back to that soggy excuse for a city for less than double the fee. Triple. Hootie hated the damn place, and don’t get him started on flying coach.”

  “Hootie?”

  “My . . . associate.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’ll need to come out here if— Well, could you tell me what the . . . uh . . . procedure consists of?”

  “All-purpose cleansing ritual. Cuts the connection between their plane, whatever the hell it is, and ours. Closes the fucking door.”

  So no more ghosts. No more threat. And no more Trent. No wonder Logan hadn’t gone for that. “If I wanted to perform it, what supplies would I need? What preparations?”

  “Forget it. I don’t deal in home remedies for DIY exorcists. Damn cheap bastards who think they can do a medium’s job without paying the medium to do it. Assholes.”

  Riley made a mental note not to mention who he worked for. He suspected Marguerite would be less than impressed with Haunted to the Max. “I understand. But I’m not trying to avoid a fee. It’s just that I have a very tight schedule and—”

  “What’s Logan to you?”

  “My—my boyfriend.”

  “He know you’re doing this shit?”

  “Well . . . no. But I promise my intentions are for his own good.”

  She snorted again. “That’s what they all say, pal. You a medium?”

  “No. I’m . . . um . . . a folklorist.”

  “Is that so?” He heard a click and then a long exhale as if she’d lit up. “Convince me you know your ass from a dowsing rod and maybe we can do business.”

  Showtime. Logan had been sure that the seven-year cycle was the key, but Riley wasn’t convinced that was the whole answer. In fact, it might not be part of the answer at all. He clicked on the document with the summary of his findings. Even to him, they looked pretty out there. If a self-proclaimed “psychic counselor” thought they were nuts too? Ooorg. He took a gulp from his water bottle to moisten his mouth and throat.

  “Okay. First, I don’t think the apparitions at the Witch’s Castle site are true ghosts.”

  “Logan tell you I said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “At least you’re honest. Go on.”

  “I think it’s actually a—a mimic conflict. Like—”

  “Winter versus summer. Holly King versus Oak King.”

  Despite the clock ticking away in his brain, Riley had to smile. “Ducks versus ptarmigans.”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind.” He rubbed his damp palms on his jeans. “The only way for a mimic conflict ritual to become unnecessary is if its target need is permanently fulfilled.”

  Her low chuckle burred over the phone line. “You learn all those fancy words at folklore school?”

  “I also learned that mythic cycles are big on representation. Nothing’s ever what it seems. Everything stands in for something else, and I don’t think this is any different. This one requires something that represents life essence to activate it. In this case . . .” He remembered the gash on Logan’s palm, Joseph Geddes’s accident with the skinning knife. “Blood.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “So will you help me?”

  She exhaled again. “If we don’t know the original need, it’ll be tough to design a counterspell. I’m not sure you can undo it, not without the original players in the field so they can work out their issues.”

  “I realize. But I’ve got to try.”

  She sighed. “How’d I know you’d say that?”

  “Can you tell me how I could prevent someone from taking part in the ritual? Make it impossible for him to get sucked in?”

  “Hmmmm.” He heard repetitive clicking, as if she were playing with her lighter. “You know how with sacrifices, there’s a purification or preparation ritual? Something that makes the poor fuckers acceptable?”

  Riley remembered Help! and how Ringo couldn’t be sacrificed without wearing the ring and getting doused with red paint. “So what I need is an anti-preparation?”

  “Exactly. If you want to keep someone from joining
the party, you’ve got to anchor him. Make him so much a part of this world that he can’t slip into the next.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “How the fuck do I know? This is for the boyfriend, right? You figure it out. I’ll give you a list of protective herbs and artifacts that should help, but they’ll only create the potential, know what I’m saying? It won’t do shit unless you find the proper hook.”

  Jeez. “I’ll get right on that.” He checked his notes again. “If we can’t deactivate the ritual, I’d like to have your cleansing procedure on tap, just in case.”

  “I— Just a minute.” Her voice turned muffled. “Calm down, Hootie. Nobody’s threatening you.” She muttered something Riley couldn’t catch. “Sorry. Back now. Anyway, technically, it’s not a true dispersion. Just . . . fuck . . . I guess you’d call it changing the frequency of the psychic transmission. The thing’ll still be there, but not as easily perceived. Invisible.”

  “But not dissipated.”

  “That’s the price you pay for ignorance. If you know the trigger and the original need, you can pinpoint this shit like microsurgery. But without knowing? More like removing a splinter with a chainsaw.”

  Riley wrapped his arms across his belly. Those spirits, possibly including Joseph Geddes and Trent Pielmeyer, would be left reenacting their tragedy, unending and unseen, with no chance for rescue. Could he consign them to that fate? But if he didn’t, the ghost war could go on consuming unsuspecting victims forever.

  “It’s a last resort, but I think I need to be prepared for it anyway.”

  “Hmmmphm. Your funeral. Got a pen? You’re gonna need an ass-load of supplies, but you should be able to get most of them at the local pagan magical supply house. Or failing that, the nearest natural grocery. Here’s a link to a YouTube video of the banishment ritual.” She rattled off a URL. “Be sure to get the hand gestures right or you’re fucked.”

  She rattled off a long list of objects, some mundane and some truly alarming, with Riley typing madly to keep up.

  “Okay. Got it.”

  “You’ve gotta realize we’re just guessing. And even if we nail it, your boyfriend struck me as one stubborn SOB. His will might be strong enough to counteract anything you do anyway.”

  “I know. But—”

  “You have to try. I get it. If it makes you feel any better, Hootie thinks we’re on the right track.”

  “Your associate? Does he have experience with this kind of thing?”

  “You could say so. He’s been a ghost since 1521.”

  She hung up before he could say thank you or beg for mercy, he wasn’t sure which.

  He slid down, resting the base of his skull on the cold chrome tubing of the chair back, and stared at the ceiling as if he could find the answer written there in rough plaster and cobwebs.

  He ought to be glad that Marguerite had validated his assumptions, although the fact that she claimed to have a five-hundred-year-old ghost as a partner didn’t say a lot about her sanity.

  What if he was wrong? Logan could end up co-opted by supernatural cosplay, just like his friend.

  Trent.

  Was he only a friend? Or was he more? Logan had definitely been hiding something as he related Trent’s story. Was it the truth about their relationship?

  Logan had never talked about his previous boyfriends, but a guy who looked like Logan must have had plenty, or at least plenty of opportunities.

  He pushed the doubt aside. Logan’s past didn’t matter. What mattered was preventing the big jerk from throwing his life away, or if that proved impossible, pulling his ass out of hellfire by the power of folklore force.

  He swallowed a bubble of panic. God, you can’t screw up, Riley. Not this time.

  Life and death. Piece of cake. No pressure whatsoever.

  Of all the shit jobs on Logan’s anti-bucket list, spending the day as Max Stone’s fake bodyguard shot instantly to number one. Christ, he was irritating. It was almost enough to make Logan long for the relative peace of ghosthood.

  He should record Max’s endless litany of nagging, threats, boasting, and borderline bullying. No jury on the planet would convict him for taking the guy out.

  Didn’t help his mood that between Max’s demand for his presence 24-7, and the show’s administrative shit—seriously, costume fitting?—the only time he’d attempted to sneak off to Riley’s room, Julie had intercepted him and sent him back to Max’s suite, where he’d gotten zero sleep on the too-short sofa.

  On top of that, Max had started to adopt Logan’s mannerisms. It was downright creepy to watch a Stone-translated copy of Logan Conner. The way Logan held himself while waiting to cross the street, poised for the first instant he could dive into traffic. The way he sat back in his chair when the server set his meal or drink in front of him. The way he stared at Max as if he were a roach crawling up the wall. That look, reflected back at him? Just. Fucking. Weird.

  But as big a pain in the ass as Max was, Logan had to give him his due—he was one hell of a mimic.

  This morning after a quick shower, Logan had tried sneaking down to Riley’s room. Before he could knock on the door, a narrow-eyed Julie had waylaid him and dragged him to a breakfast meeting with Scott and Max. Afterward, he’d sat in the darkened production suite during the dailies from yesterday’s filming, then been forced to endure brunch with reporters, for Chrissake.

  After he’d accompanied Max to his costume fitting—which took for-fricking-ever considering the guy wore jeans and a T-shirt under his bomber jacket—Logan had had enough. He’d suggested a tour of Portland, if only to get out of the hotel.

  Unfortunately, Max misinterpreted his reason for the field trip.

  “Stone, I am not taking you to a gay club.”

  Max kept pace with him on the downtown sidewalk like the world’s most annoying sidecar. “Why not? Be reasonable, Logan. You’re being paid for your time.”

  Dude. There was not enough money in the entire Portland metro area to compensate him for the fallout of Max imitating him in a gay bar.

  “Ah.” Max tapped the side of his nose with one manicured forefinger. “I get it. You think Wiley might find out. What’s the deal with you two anyway?”

  Logan stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the glares of the other pedestrians. “I told you. Stop calling him that.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. But what’s the deal?”

  Logan took off at a fast clip so Max had to hurry to keep up. “Not your business.”

  “Of course it’s my business. I’m the star. My face is on the screen. My name’s in the frigging title.” Max shoved his hands in the pockets of his replacement jacket, which Charmaine had spent two hours pounding with a hammer to distress it to his satisfaction. “Wiley’s trying to—”

  Logan spun to face him, rocking him back on his heels. “Riley. Say it with me or I don’t go another step.”

  “Fine. Rye. Lee,” Max said, baring his teeth around the words. “Happy?” Logan grunted, which Max apparently took as an affirmative. “Little shit’s trying to weasel in on my screen time. Do you know that all the dailies this morning were of him? Not one of me.”

  “Weren’t you too hungover yesterday to shoot?”

  “That’s beside the point. The show is Haunted to the Max. Not Haunted to the Riley.”

  Logan buried his grin behind a fist. The guy was clearly envious of Riley’s appeal, as well he should be. Riley was ten times as charismatic as this poser, without resorting to artifice. He doubted Riley was capable of being less than genuine. But Max, self-centered to the exclusion of anything resembling reality, would never understand that. He’d assume it was all an act.

  Christ. Riley. If things went to hell tomorrow night—and considering Logan’s fucktastic luck, they probably would—he didn’t think he’d be strong enough to do the right thing if Riley was there, reminding him what he was leaving behind.

  Max scuffed along the sidewalk, his mouth turned down like a toddler
in the throes of a tantrum, not an attractive look on a man over thirty.

  An idea bloomed, sneaky and beautiful. Why not feed the fucking flame?

  “You know,” he said, keeping his voice casual, almost lazy, “if it was me, I wouldn’t stand for that shit.”

  Max’s head snapped up. “You wouldn’t?”

  Christ, the guy was so fucking easy. Logan squinted at the fading sunlight glinting off the pink windows of the US Bancorp Tower. “Nah.”

  “So.” Max matched Logan’s pace, settling his shoulders at the same angle. “Hypothetically. If it was you. What would you do? Fire him?”

  Alarm hollowed Logan’s belly. He needed to remember who he was talking to; Max Stone did not do nuance. “See, that’s overkill, Max. He’s useful to the show. Knows the routine.”

  Max squinted at the building too. “True. He gets my lattes exactly how I like them.”

  “Then there’s Julie.”

  Max’s gaze slid sideways, and his Adam’s apple bobbed above the collar of his tight blue T-shirt. “Julie?”

  “Yeah. Riley’s her best bud. If you value your balls, don’t mess with her.”

  “I . . . uh . . .” Max swallowed again and shot a glance over his shoulder. “Yesterday, I kinda . . . woke up in her bed.”

  A laugh got caught in Logan’s throat, and he choked. “Holy shit, Max. You really don’t value your balls.”

  “I was alone. I mean, she wasn’t there. That I know of. At least not at the time. But she brought me clothes later.”

  “She have her clipboard with her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re safe, then. Nothing happened. She must have scraped you off the pavement somewhere. But you get my drift? Don’t screw with her.”

  “Totally. So . . .?”

  “So keep him away from the camera. Off the set. Busy elsewhere. Christ, there’s enough crap on that tome of a schedule to keep an army of Rileys on the run.”

  Max nodded. “Good point. He could hang out at craft services, make sure they get my dinner order right.”

  Christ, if Logan didn’t die tomorrow, Riley was going to kill him.

  He eyed Max, swaggering along next to him. Jesus, did Logan truly look like that? Max as the happy, sloppy—and eventually freaked-out—drunk from his first night at the bar was easier to stomach than Max, the Logan-clone.