It only took him twenty minutes to stack everything on the counter and leave a note for the landlord. He sat on the revolting sofa, resigned to a couple of hours waiting for Max’s call, but it came before the broken spring in the cushion had a chance to bruise his ass.
“Hey, Logan, change in plans. You need to report to makeup at six.”
“Makeup. Why?”
“You can’t appear on camera without it. You’ll look washed-out.”
“I’m not going to be on camera. Besides, it’ll be dark.”
“Yes, you are. Scott likes your style. He says it’ll read well for the story.”
Logan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Un-fucking-believable. “Why six? It’ll take them that long to smear me with whatever?”
Max’s chuckle burred over the scratchy connection. “They’ll finish with you in no time, but you have to be there with me. We’ll be at the trailhead, so you know, the spirits might sense that we’re there and get pissed.”
Only if they had to report to makeup too. Christ.
So after another fun-filled afternoon with an amped-up Max, Logan reported to the fricking makeup trailer for ten minutes of prep, and then kicked his heels while Max plunged into his own interminable session.
As they approached hour four of Max agonizing over his hair and the angle of his hat, Charmaine poked her head into the trailer and motioned him outside.
Thank God for small favors, but . . . He scanned the tents and trailers scattered around the graveled staging area. No sign of Riley. He took a deep breath and conjured up a smile. “Hey. What’s up?”
She held out a leather bomber jacket. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“Your costume.”
Logan held it up in the light from the craft services tent. “It looks exactly like my real jacket.”
“But if you wear your own, we have to pay you a costume piece-rate.”
“And that’s more than buying a whole new jacket?”
She shot a glance over her shoulder at the dozen or so crew schlepping mysterious equipment around and mainlining coffee. “It’s one of Max’s extras, but don’t tell anybody.” She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Gimme yours.”
He shrugged his jacket off and traded it for its clone. She spun on her heel and took off.
“Hey, hold on.” He caught up with her. “I’ve got stuff in those pockets.”
She peered at him over her giant glasses. “I’ll keep it secure. You’ll get it back after the shoot.”
Not likely. For him, there’d be no after.
“I still want my stuff.”
She sighed, but held out the jacket.
“Charmaine!” Square Jaw shouted from the trailhead. “Scott needs you. Now.”
“Coming.” She shook Logan’s jacket. “Hurry up.”
“Yeah, yeah.” After he jammed both hands into the outside pockets and transferred each fistful of stuff to the costume jacket, Charmaine tried to escape. “Not yet.” He unzipped the inside pocket, gathered the chain into his hand, and pulled it out. He waved her on. “Go for it.”
“Take this.” She handed him a folded bandana. “For the mud.” Then she sped away.
He shoved the bandana in his pocket and ducked behind the makeup trailer. No matter what waited him at the end of the trail, he refused to abandon the rings. When he unzipped the inner pocket of the jacket to stow them—Christ, it really was exactly like his own—the chain slithered out of his fist and dangled from his hand. He frowned. It felt . . . off.
He held the chain up so it caught the dim light and stared at it stupidly for a full thirty seconds. Only one ring hung suspended from the chain. His own.
Riley, damn it.
Had to be. He was the only one with the opportunity, although what his motive might be, Logan couldn’t guess.
“Shit.” He dropped the chain into the pocket and zipped it up. Riley must have something in mind beyond Marguerite’s banishment ritual. Something Logan had missed in his skim-read of the documents before he’d axed them. Who the fuck knew what the stubborn idiot had planned? Just as well Logan had sabotaged him, because he couldn’t allow those plans to succeed. Not now. Not when he was so close.
The door to the makeup trailer banged open, and Max emerged, ready for his fucking close-up.
“All set, Logan.” Max posed in the open trailer door wearing the exact grim expression Logan had worn for the last two days. “Let’s hit the trail.”
A PA armed with a high-powered flashlight led the way down the narrow path, Max mincing in her wake as he tried not to get mud on his boots. Logan brought up the rear, and at just after ten, they made it to the Witch’s Castle.
The rest of the crew was already there, milling around the site, and Logan had to hand it to them—they were careful. They didn’t muck up the trails or disturb the foliage or underbrush. He gave Julie a lot of the credit for that. She patrolled the place like a Prussian field marshal directing her troops.
She wasn’t so busy, though that she couldn’t take time out to give Logan a look that made his balls glad she carried a clipboard and not a pair of pruning shears.
The crew had set up their equipment oriented toward the Witch’s Castle, arguably the most scenic and haunted-looking backdrop. Excellent. If they were focused on the ruins, they’d be out of range of the ghost war barrier when it rose. They’d be safe. They might not get much usable footage—who knew what the eldritch light from the barrier would do to those night-vision cameras?—but they’d be out of the way. Fewer opportunities for any of them to fuck this up.
“No, I told you. The building is not the place you want to focus.”
At the sound of that voice, determined, unafraid, and clearly un-fired, the hair on the back of Logan’s neck rose, along with his rebellious dick. Goddamn it! Sure enough, when Scott rounded the corner of the Castle, Riley was dogging his heels, carrying a ventilated metal ball trailing smoke that reeked of mint and thyme and some less pleasant smells Logan couldn’t identify.
“Why’s Rye-Lee here?” Max bumped Logan’s shoulder with his own. “I thought we got him reassigned to craft services.”
Logan moved out of shoulder-bump range. “Guess not.”
“What’s he doing? Bombing for insects?” Max peered up into the foliage. “Must work. Haven’t seen a single mosquito since we got here.”
“That’s because the bats eat them.”
Max’s eyes bugged out. “Bats?” He pulled his hat lower on his forehead, negating all the time he’d spent getting its angle right in the makeup trailer. “Next time, we’re sticking to ghosts who had the sense to die inside a house.”
Logan loitered near the camera setup as Riley cornered Scott in front of the shallow stone steps that led to the roofless upper story of the Castle. “Scott. This is all wrong.”
“It’s a better shot.” Scott didn’t bother to glance Riley’s way. “The spot by the bank is blocked by that fricking tree and the noise from the creek interferes with the mic.”
“The ghosts don’t haunt the Castle. It didn’t exist during their lifetimes. They—”
“I don’t have time for this shit.” Scott pointed at Riley’s nose. “You and I both know there aren’t any ghosts.”
Riley’s mouth fell open. “But—”
“This whole fucking show is one big gimmick, with a little scam thrown in for shits and grins.”
Logan groaned. No, you idiot. Don’t challenge his kung fu. He left Max perched in a folding canvas chair with Stone stenciled on the back, and strode across the clearing before Scott had a chance to detonate the Riley stubborn-bomb.
Riley shut his mouth, and his jaw took on a familiar mulish cast. Too late. “Maybe that’s why you’ve never had a true sighting. You pick your episodes by what looks good, not what the we—research supports.”
“Research?” Scott guffawed, obviously not realizing he’d just lit a second fuse. “Research supports fuck-all,
unless it gives us a decent backstory. Smoke and mirrors. That’s all this shit is. That’s all it’s ever been.” He turned away. “Zack. Max. I want to stage a walk-through of the ruins. The two of you, with me now.”
He walked off. Riley’s chest heaved, his breath forming a misty cloud in front of his face. Surprised equivalent clouds don’t shoot out his ears.
Logan closed the final distance between them, angling his back toward the curious crew, unable to resist crowding close enough to feel the heat radiating from Riley’s skin, although the smoke from the damn censer blocked Riley’s own scent and made Logan’s eyes water.
“What are you doing here? Without your files, I thought—”
Riley took a giant, deliberate step away, his expression not softening in the slightest. “You really think I didn’t have online backups? I may be stupid enough to fall for your line more than once, but I’m not that stupid.”
“I know you’re not stupid, but this isn’t safe. Riley, believe me. You need to get far away from here.”
“No. You need to believe me.” Riley’s voice was low and fierce. “The answer to this is in the ritual.” Riley inhaled sharply, and for an instant, his eyes widened. “Oh, right. I almost forgot. You’re on Team Max now. You don’t think I know what I’m doing.”
“Hey!” Max’s shout from the upper level of the Witch’s Castle startled them both, and they broke away from each other. “Who the hell is that?”
A chill zinged down Logan’s spine. It couldn’t be a ghost; the war wasn’t due to rise until midnight.
He took two strides and shoved Riley behind him. The ragged figure who shambled out from behind the Castle wasn’t a ghost, though.
It was Danny Ball, aka Danford fucking Balch.
When Logan took off to converge on the grimy stranger along with Scott and Max, Riley glared at his retreating back and wished for a couple of spare lightning bolts from Zeus. Or maybe Odin. He wasn’t fussy as long as it got the job done and zapped Logan off the set.
Failing that, he’d have to channel Anansi the Spider and rely on cunning, with a little annoying limpet persistence thrown in. He ran across the clearing, the mud slippery under his high-tops, and joined the group now looming over the cowering man.
“What are you doing here?” Scott shouted. “Answer me.”
“Come on, Scott.” Max tugged at Scott’s arm. “It’s obvious. He’s got to be the saboteur.”
“Use your fucking brain for a change, Max. How could a smelly homeless guy break into two different suites at that hotel? Don’t you think someone would have noticed?”
Max nodded owlishly. “Maybe this is only his temporal disguise.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me you buy your own line of bullshit.”
Logan took the shivering man by one arm and hauled him to his feet. “I’ll take care of this. Isn’t that what you hired me for?”
“Yeah.” Max brightened immediately. “Yeah, it is.”
When Logan turned, Riley drew his shoulders back and met his gaze. At first, he thought Logan would relent, finally accept that Riley had as much a right to be here as Logan did. Instead, his expression grew cold, his gaze implacable.
“Christ, somebody keep Wiley out of my sight. I’ve got enough to do tonight without him panting at my feet.” He turned and dragged the stranger away.
Riley flinched, the pain as acute as if he’d taken a blow to the body and not to the heart. He wrapped his arms across his chest, anchoring his freezing hands in his armpits, and wished for a convenient rock to crawl under.
Next to him, Max’s mouth sagged open. “Man, I can dig the Teflon attitude, but that was just mean.” He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “How am I supposed to use that? The fans’ll never go for it.”
Riley blinked, the pain fading. If the world’s most narcissistic fake ghost hunter thought Logan’s behavior was out-of-character, then this was nothing more than another stupid attempt to drive Riley away under some misguided notion of protecting him.
Oddly enough, warmth washed through his chest. He still cares, the big idiot. He just refuses to believe he needs help too.
He circled the Witch’s Castle, searching for Logan, and spotted him leading the intruder up the path toward the spot where Riley’s research indicated the main skirmish in the ghost war would occur.
Wait. If the man didn’t belong on the scene, Logan, with his damned inconvenient knight-errant complex, would have hustled him off-site without a blink. If he was keeping him here, inside the perimeter, that must mean . . .
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Danford Balch.”
Riley ran after them, dodging a couple of grips, and nearly collided with Logan’s back when they stopped under the tree next to the creek.
The ragged man hunkered down in the mud and wiped the back of his hand under his nose, smearing snot across his cheek.
“Jesus.” Logan fumbled in his jacket pocket. He pulled out a wad of tissues, and his pocket knife, a crumpled piece of paper, and one glove came along for the ride. “Here, Balch. Try not to be completely disgusting.”
Riley ran a trembling hand through his hair. “It’s really him? Danford Balch?”
“Shut up,” Logan growled. “You want Max or Julie sticking their noses in?”
“Right. Sorry.” Riley knelt and collected the stuff that had spilled from Logan’s pocket.
Balch wiped his nose and scrubbed the side of his face with the tissue until it shredded, leaving bits of white in his stubble. He nodded at the creek.
“This was my homestead, my legacy, land for my children—but I found out none of them got a single acre. She gave it all to him. And he cared so little about it, about my children, that he gave it all away.”
“‘Him’? You mean your wife’s second husband?”
He snorted, spreading more mucus in his mustache. “Her third. I was her second. That woman didn’t stand still for long.”
Logan crossed his arms and glared down at Balch. “Why are you here? You ran pretty fast the other night.”
Balch peered up at them from under matted hair. “Same reason I’m always here. For a chance to see my Anna.” His gaze skittered among the HttM crew littering the site. “But that don’t seem likely, not with all these folks in the way.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Logan muttered.
“Here.” Riley handed off Logan’s knife and glove, but the paper fluttered away. He chased it down and caught it before it took a header into the creek. He tried to smooth it out, brushing at the splotches of mud that dotted it. “Sorry, I don’t think . . .” He stared at the paper and his stomach dropped. “It’s—it’s a map. To the Vaughn Street Hotel.” Max’s room number and the room number of the equipment suite were scrawled across the top of the page. He raised his head, the paper crumpling as he clenched his fist. “You lied. You were the vandal after all.”
Logan carded his fingers through his hair. He didn’t need this. Not another fight with Riley. Not now. “I told you, no. Besides, why would I need a map to your hotel? I know where it is.”
“Why bother to deny it now, Logan? What can you hope to gain?”
“Riley.” He grabbed Riley’s shoulders, forced him to meet his gaze. “That’s just a random scrap I used the night I went to find Balch.” He unfurled Riley’s fingers, removed the paper, and showed him the addresses of the shelters. “See. Here are my notes.” He flipped the paper. “This? This isn’t my writing. It’s Bert’s.”
“Bert? Your boss? Why would he—”
“Now who the hell is that?” Scott’s annoyed bellow didn’t drown out Balch’s rattling breath. “Julie, goddamn it, you said this was a closed set.”
Logan caught the flicker of movement as another man, tall and gaunt, emerged from the trees on the hillside above the Castle. When he stepped into the wan moonlight, Logan swore under his breath.
“Bert,” he growled. “Christ. Bert. How fucking stupid could I be? Stump
town Spirits. Right in front of me the whole time. Cuthbert fucking Stump.” He pushed Riley behind him. “It was you. You trashed the cameras. Trashed Max’s room.”
“That was before.” His burning gaze passed over the ragged man who huddled at Logan’s feet and focused on Riley, his lips drawing back in a rictus excuse for a grin. “No man can escape his destiny.”
A babble of confused voices, random shouts from Max, Scott, Zack, and Julie, filled the air, but he dismissed them as irrelevant. “You escaped yours, though, didn’t you, Cuthbert, and left my grandfather twisting in the wind.”
“He was a blame fool. Not my fault he didn’t have the sense God gave a goose.”
“He helped you, you bastard. Gave you a place to sleep. Food. Clothing. Money. And you destroyed his life.”
“I had my own way to make, same as any man. Your grandfather? He made his own bed. I paid my debt to his blood, though. Looked out for you, gave you a job. You got no cause for complaint.”
Logan lurched forward, fists clenched, the urge to coldcock Bert stronger than he could resist, but Riley grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“Wait. Logan, I know how you must feel, but don’t you see? This must be it. The engine that drives the ritual: Cuthbert’s quest for vengeance.” His voice was low, urgent. “We could do it, Logan. We could unravel this whole mess. End it. Here. Tonight.”
“I thought you said it wouldn’t end unless the need was resolved.”
“This may be as close as we’ll ever get. All the original players are here. We can do the banishment ritual.”
“Will that release Trent?”
“I don’t know, but—”
“Then no.”
“Logan. Do you want to leave Cuthbert loose in the world for another half century?”
He pried Riley’s fingers loose from his sleeve. “The world will have to take its chances. I’ve got another debt to pay.”
Riley caught Logan’s hand, his eyes wide. “Look.”
A sulfurous glow had appeared, hovering at ankle level just beyond Bert—no, Cuthbert, damn it all to hell—snaking back into the trees up the hill. “Shit.” Logan glanced behind him. The crew and Scott were still wrangling equipment at the far side of the clearing. “What time is it?”
Stumptown Spirits Page 20
