God. That young man in the park must be Mortimer Stump, reanimated within twenty feet of the man who killed him.
Which meant Riley had taken his place and was sixteen paces from having his face blown away by Danford Balch.
Only Danford wasn’t Danford. He was Logan and Riley was about to be murdered by his own lover.
Not just tonight, but forever.
Beyond Logan, Riley could still make out the shadowy form of the real Danford Balch in his tattered coat, watching with a combination of fear and shame. Logan’s face was twisted with his effort to stop, but Riley knew it wouldn’t help. Logan had taken the role willingly and he couldn’t escape.
Cuthbert’s laugh rang out in the street. “I know you can hear me, Balch. Don’t you recognize him?” Cuthbert gripped Riley-Mortimer’s shoulder in a viselike grip. “He fits right here. Blood of my blood.” The grip tightened further, and Riley whimpered. “Too bad it’s tainted by the blood of your whore daughter.”
In the shadowy park, Balch’s horrified gaze flicked from Anna to Riley.
“She whelped, your bitch of a daughter. Didn’t you know? While you cowered in the woods, she birthed a son. When we sold her off to Eli Morrel out in Hillsboro, she took the brat with her. Changed his name.” He shook Riley’s shoulder again. “He’s the last of the line. The line that mixes your filthy blood with mine. And tonight . . .” His fingers closed like a vise on Riley’s shoulder. “That line ends.”
Balch’s scream was audible through a century and a half of time. Baring his teeth in a grimace, he staggered forward, hands outstretched and fingers curled into claws.
But Riley’s attention shifted back to Logan-Danford, who raised the shotgun, his eyes his own, tortured behind the mask of the role he’d taken on. Riley strained to move, but between the bounds of his own role and Cuthbert’s grip on his shoulder, he couldn’t duck or dodge. He could do nothing but face Logan and wait for the end.
“I’m sorry,” Logan mouthed, even as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Riley nodded. “I know,” he whispered. “It’s all right. I love you.” He closed his eyes.
The shotgun blast ripped the air, deafening Riley, but he felt nothing. The accounts said Mortimer died instantly. Is this what they meant? No pain? Riley’s hand crept to his chest, and he opened his eyes.
Balch—with no overlay of Logan’s features—stood at the end of the wagon, townsfolk converging on him from all sides, his shotgun smoking in the chill air. Beyond him, behind the curtain of time, Logan crouched, a discarded bundle of matted fur and stained nylon on the ground in front of him.
Balch gestured at a spot near Riley’s feet with the barrel of his gun. Riley looked down. Cuthbert Stump lay moaning in the mud, his chest an open wound.
“I told them it was an accident, Stump,” Balch said, as the crowd hemmed him in and a burly man in a blacksmith’s apron yanked the shotgun out of his hands. “I was aiming for you.”
Cuthbert took one last gurgling breath, and in a flash brighter than a carbon arc spotlight, the entire tableau disappeared.
“Riley!” Logan had shouted, he was sure, but he couldn’t hear himself, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t see a damn thing either, but the vision of Riley’s face, superimposed over Mortimer’s, was burned into his brain. No, goddamn it, no! Kneeling in the mud, he pressed his fists to his belly as he fought the urge to howl.
Christ, he’d done it again. Pulled a man he cared about into a nightmare. This time, though, Logan wasn’t sure he could survive the loss. Trent had been his best friend, a fuck buddy who might have turned into more, given time. But he loved Riley to the bottom of his wretched worthless soul.
“Help me. Help me. Jesus God, someone please help me.” A voice he hadn’t heard in seven years bled through the ringing in his ears. Trent. Thank God.
Although his vision still consisted of alternating black and white blotches, Logan crawled toward the pitiful whimper, feeling his way along the ground, until he ran into a jeans-clad thigh.
“Trent? It’s me.”
“Logan?” Trent’s body shuddered, and his hands scrabbled on the leather sleeves of Logan’s jacket. “It’s really you? What—”
“Never mind. Let’s get you out of here.”
“God, please, yes. But I can’t—I can’t see. Why can’t I see?”
“Don’t know, man. I’m having trouble with that myself. Piss-poor rescuer I turned out to be, eh?” Trent wrapped his arms around Logan’s waist and sobbed against his chest. Logan rocked him, heedless of the mud and the weeds that caught at his clothes and skin. Rain began to patter on the ground, on his face, in fat, sullen drops. “Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay now.”
Logan, however, might never be okay again.
He kissed the top of Trent’s head and stroked his hair, as the other man’s sobs gradually subsided.
Footsteps pounded past. “Someone get the medic.” Julie’s voice. “Riley!”
Riley?
“Yeah. Give me a minute. My eyes are wonky.”
At the sound of that voice, relief flooded Logan’s chest and his head swam. Riley was here? Alive? Christ, he needed to see. He squinted, struggling to focus his still-blotchy vision, and tried to get up, but Trent wouldn’t release him.
“What the hell just happened?” Scott’s voice cut through Trent’s fading sobs. “Where’d that light come from? Where’d it go? Where’d that other guy go? Who the hell is that with Conner?” Scott’s footsteps thumped and squished past him. “Where’s Max?”
“Not sure about Max. At the trailhead maybe?” Riley’s voice was tired, dispirited. “But we kind of staged a supernatural search and recovery.”
“No fucking shit?” Scott let out a whoop they could probably hear at the St. Johns Bridge. “Give me the deets. Are these the guys from the story?”
“Yeah. The men who disappeared were the temporal avatars of Danford Balch, Cuthbert Stump, and Mortimer Stump. They vanished when Danford Balch’s quest to kill the right person succeeded. Come on. I’ll fill you in.” Their footsteps retreated, squelching in the mud.
Why did Riley sound so defeated? He’d fucking done it! He’d deactivated the ghost war. Trent was free. Logan was free. Riley wasn’t dead. What could be the problem?
Surely any minute now, as soon as Riley finished debriefing Scott, he’d appear next to Logan and put one of those warm hands on his neck the way he always did when Logan was having a bad day.
But when his vision finally cleared enough to see anything, the first person he saw was Julie, glaring at him with that I’d-as-soon-cut-your-balls-off-as-look-at-you expression.
He groaned. The downside of surviving the night was all the shit he’d have to clean up. He’d betrayed Riley again. Twice. Three times if he counted getting him trapped in the ghost war as the fucking murder victim. Plus, he’d ejected Julie from the story of a lifetime.
He wasn’t sorry about that. Who knew what could have happened? She could have ended up as Anna Stump, and they’d have had to wait another seven years to rescue her.
But Riley. Yeah, he was sorry about everything he’d done that had hurt Riley, starting with that heartless scene he’d staged back in Eugene, all those months ago.
He scanned the clearing, which was now filled with the thankfully solid forms of the milling crew. Max was notably absent, and Riley— No, there he was, approaching a man in workman’s clothes. Holy shit. That must be Joseph Geddes, his grandfather’s downfall and Cuthbert’s ticket out of time. Poor guy was going to need some serious therapy and job retraining.
Trent snuffled against his neck. Another guy with therapy in his future.
“Trent? Hey, man, let’s get you up. I’m gonna turn you over to someone who’ll take care of you, okay? Get you something hot to drink.”
Trent moaned as Logan helped him to his feet. “Can you make it alcoholic? Because Jesus, I need to get seriously wasted.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever. I jus
t . . . I’ve got to . . .” Logan practically thrust Trent at a passing grip. “Take him to the medic, would you, man?” He’d make it up to Trent later, but first, he needed to prove to Riley that he was boyfriend material.
Fuck that. Husband material.
Starting right fucking now.
After his vision had cleared from the ghost war implosion, the light of epiphany had nearly blinded Riley a second time. Clearly Logan had no trouble with public displays of affection when the affection-ee was the correct person, because while Riley had given Scott the rundown of what happened inside the ghost war, Logan had sat there, cuddling with Trent in full view of the crew. Damn it, practically on camera.
Riley had obviously never been the correct person. Time he faced that fact and moved on.
So he turned his back on Logan and Trent, and hunkered down next to the shivering man in workman’s clothes. “Mr. Geddes?” The man looked up, eyes wide and terrified. “You are Joseph Geddes, aren’t you?”
“You know my—” His voice rasped worse than a lifelong smoker’s. Guess sixty or seventy years of not using it would do that to a guy. “I don’t . . . Where . . .?” He rolled to his hands and knees, retching into the weeds.
Riley beckoned to the show medic, who was already sprinting toward them. “Alonzo, this is Mr. Geddes. He’ll need some serious TLC. He’s been . . . away for quite a while.”
Alonzo nodded and knelt by Geddes, who’d already stopped heaving, but had resumed shivering.
Riley turned away. Logan still had his arms around Trent. So much for the stupid expectations that Logan’s last-minute declaration of love had raised. It had clearly been nothing but battlefield adrenaline. Riley’s own adrenaline-crash had left him feeling as hollow and transparent as one of the Stumptown spirits.
He trudged across the clearing, his high-tops and the hem of his jeans soaked and caked with filth. Metal glinted at his feet. The chain. The rings. He picked them up, along with a generous helping of Forest Park, and shoved them in his pocket before anyone else saw them and asked inconvenient questions.
“Hey.” Logan appeared at his side, his voice low. Neutral. No doubt he didn’t want to muddy the relationship waters in front of Trent. “You okay?”
Riley nodded, afraid to look at him in case Julie’s assertions about his stupid open face were true. “Yeah. Fine.” He swallowed and his shoulders shook momentarily. “We were wrong. It was Balch’s war all along.”
“We were right enough. You did it, Riley. You fucking did it. You saved Trent.”
He nodded numbly. “I’m glad you found your friend. I’ve got to go.”
Logan murmured something that sounded like “fuck sensitive,” and he grabbed Riley by the shoulder and spun him around.
“Damn straight you’ve got to go. You’ve got to go with me.” Logan caught Riley’s head with both hands, lacing his fingers through Riley’s hair, and crushed his lips in a bruising kiss.
Riley squeaked into Logan’s mouth. What? But— Oh, screw it. He wrapped his arms around Logan’s waist and participated fully in the tongue war.
A chorus of whistles erupted around them, along with a smattering of applause.
Logan pulled away and smiled down at him. “Sorry.” He swiped his thumb across Riley’s lips.
Riley blinked. God, he was probably a dead ringer for that stupid cartoon of himself Julie had drawn, with his smile curved up above his eyes. “I’m not.” He tucked his hands under Logan’s jacket, the better to feel his warmth. “You mean it? You’re back for good?”
“Yep. You and me, babe. No matter where you go, I’ll be there.”
Scott bustled over. “You guys. I can’t even— Oh my fucking God. You should see the footage Zack got through that crazy curtain. Only problem is, I’m not sure anyone will buy it as anything but FX.”
Riley reluctantly withdrew his hands from under Logan’s jacket, but grabbed his hand instead. “Yeah. I expect the light played hell with the camera.”
“Fuck it. We’ll work with it. The thing is, I’ve got a whole new idea for a paranormal investigation show. But this time, the real stuff. Like you said, Riley: research, that’s the ticket. It won’t be a series. Specials. Only when we’ve got a rock-awesome lead like this one.” Scott scrubbed his hands across his head, causing his hair to stick up until he looked like a manic bearded Einstein. “Holy fucking shit.”
Riley blinked. Had Scott actually used his name? “I don’t think Max’ll go for that, Scott. He didn’t like the experience much.” The last time Riley had seen him, Max had been racing up the trail like a scared wabbit.
“Fuck Max.” Scott glanced at their interlaced fingers. “No offense. I want to star the two of you. Gay guys kick ghost butt. Queer as Folk meets The Haunting. High concept all the way.”
Logan laughed. “Not for me, man. I’ve got an architecture degree to finish.” He kissed Riley’s temple. “What Riley wants is up to him.”
“I’m on board for the research, Scott, but I don’t know about the on-camera stuff. I’m not weally—”
“Later.” Logan pulled Riley past the cluster of crew.
Scott kept pace with them. “I’m not shitting you.”
“Later, Scott.” Logan lengthened his stride until Riley had to trot to keep up.
Julie jogged up on Scott’s other side. “Nice idea, Scott, but I’ve already got Riley locked for my next project. Right, Riley?”
“Um . . .” He glanced at Logan, who mouthed, Later, and happiness burbled under his sternum like warm champagne. “Later, Jules.”
Julie winked at him and linked her arm with Scott’s and led him off. “I’m sure we can work something out, Scott. Let’s do lunch. We’ll talk.”
Breathless after Logan had hauled him up the trail at a near-sprint for a couple of minutes, Riley tugged on his hand. “So. We’re building up quite a list of things to do later. What do you have in mind for now?”
Logan stopped and faced him on the path. “Is anybody watching us?”
Above them, the support crew appeared around a bend of the Wildwood Trail, obviously lured away from craft services by the supernatural light show. Behind them, the tramp and mutter signaled the first of the camera guys slogging their equipment up the path. The two of them were caught in the middle.
“We’re kind of center stage. In about thirty seconds, everyone will be watching.”
“Excellent.” Logan dropped to his knees on the muddy trail.
Heat washed up Riley’s neck, and he glanced around wildly. “Um . . . Logan. Public displays of affection are one thing, but I don’t think you should blow me in the middle of my workplace.”
“I’m not blowing you.” His eyes sparkled in the intermittent moonlight. “At least not yet, although that’s another thing on the agenda for later.” He took Riley’s hands, despite their less than pristine state. “I’m proposing.”
Riley’s heart did a double backflip, and his breath stalled somewhere below his throat. “You’re . . . what?” he croaked.
“Proposing. I used to have some rings on me, but—”
Riley fumbled them out of his jeans pocket and slapped them into Logan’s hand. “I picked them up after we . . . well, you know.”
“Good job, hero.” A grin flickered and faded on Logan’s face. He peered down the path at the camera crew. “Yo, Zack. You still got that handheld?”
Zack hefted the camera. “Always.”
“Then fire it up.” At the tender look on Logan’s face, Riley’s knees nearly buckled. “I want to remember this moment forever, or maybe longer, and I’m taking no chances.”
“Aaaand,” Zack called, “action!”
“Riley Morrel.” Logan’s voice was husky, and he cleared his throat. “Sorry. Take two. Be sure you get my good side, Zack.” He placed one hand over his heart, rings in his other palm. “Riley Morrel, rock-awesome folklorist and kick-ass ghost-buster, will you do me the very great honor of marrying me?”
Riley laughed, joy ro
cketing from his feet to the top of his head. “Of course I will.” He reached for the rings, but Logan closed them in his fist, his expression earnest.
“You need to be sure, Riley.”
“Me? I’ve been sure since that first ride on your Ducati. What about you?”
“I’ve got no doubts. This is it. You. Me. Married. Till death do us part. Although . . .” Logan nodded down the trail where Julie and Scott were advancing on them, then up the trail, where Max approached like an attention-seeking missile. “Considering your job, and what the two of us endured tonight, death doesn’t seem like much of an obstacle either.” He kissed Riley’s grimy knuckles. “So. You and me. Get it?”
Riley laughed. “Got it.”
“Good.” Logan tugged him down, wrapped both arms around him, and kissed him. Long, hot, Perfect.
“And that,” Logan murmured against Riley’s lips, “is a wrap.”
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