by Harper, Lou
Joy seemed to buzz with anticipation as the preparations went underway. She and Denton laid a hideous Christmas tablecloth print side down on the tile floor.
"Gift from Aunt Margie," she explained.
"Say no more." Denton sprinkled the powdered sugar in a circle on top of the fabric.
"I would've expected you to use salt," Joy commented.
"Salt's for spirits who might be hostile or dangerous, but the act of using salt makes a benign spirit pissy. Sugar has many magic properties, even if it's not as potent as graveyard dust." As Joy drank up his words, Denton preened himself on his expertise, even though it was fairly new to him too, and he still had a lot to learn.
If Bran noticed Denton's moment of swagger, he didn't show it. He was busy mixing an assortment of dried herbs in a bowl, and murmuring a Spanish incantation as he did. "Here you go," he handed to bowl to Denton."
"Why Spanish?" Joy asked with raised brows.
"Uhm." Bran clearly didn't feel at ease revealing personal information. "My great-grandfather was a brujo—kind of a Spanish witch. He and my great-grandmother had to flee Spain in the eighteen-hundreds. Anyway, it's really not the words or the language making a spell work, but the faith you have in them."
"Oh, I see. So you're Spanish then. It explains your dark good looks." Joy's tone bubbled with playful teasing.
Bran missed it completely. "Not fully Spanish. Their daughter, my grandmother became the black sheep of the family for marrying a Welshman. I'm afraid my mother took after her." Bran said nothing of his own father, the demon.
While Joy and Bran chatted, Denton had completed the setup. The red lid of the Dutch oven sat in the middle of the circle. The silver-painted rooster it had for a handle seemed ready to rumble. There was only one thing missing. Denton cast his gaze around in search. "Ah, that'll do." He grabbed a squeeze bottle of Sriracha from the counter and used it to draw the simplest sign of summoning on the lid. He could've used other, more complex signs, but those were for reluctant spirits, who took more convincing. Instinct told him this guy would be cake.
Joy chortled. "You use hot sauce in witchcraft?"
Denton straightened up and put the condiment back on the counter. "Not normally, but it's fitting in this occasion. I'd hate to ruin your antique dish by writing on it with a permanent marker."
Joy nodded appreciatively. "Oh, good thinking, Den. So… what now?"
"Now I summon. Stand back please." Denton positioned himself at the edge of the circle, facing it. He fixed his eyes on the silver rooster—his closest connection to the ghostly presence—and began to chant a conjuration, demanding the spirit to appear. He only had to repeat the request twice before a gray, smoky shape materialized in front of him.
Denton took a deep breath and let white light fill him. He stretched out his hand but instead of blasting the ghost into the netherworld as he was supposed to, he carefully channeled a small amount of light into the shape. He'd done this once before, although the first time was by accident. The ghost slowly morphed into a roughly human form—a paunchy man in a brown suit, with a long, up-curving mustache. He was still vague and mostly transparent, but looked more or less like a person.
Denton heard Joy gasp and Bran clear his throat in a tone of disapproval. Denton knew he shouldn't have made the ghost more corporeal, but he'd been curious. And well, he was showing off to Joy. "Who are you?" he asked.
The ghost harrumphed. "Everyone knows the Great Alphonse Bouchard." He wavered then went on. "Le Chateau Bouchard is the best dining establishment in town. Even children know this." He spoke in a frothy French accent.
Denton thought best to humor the spirit. "Yes, of course. But why are you here?"
The ghost faded out for a moment but came back. "Alphonse, darling, your chestnut soup is to die for, Marlene said word for word. She was sublime, like the Goddess she was. The most splendide day of my life was when she and Mel graced Le Chateau with their presence."
Denton heard Joy's breath catch at the mention of chestnut soup, but didn't share her delight. The ghost wasn't as responsive as he'd hoped. This was the trouble with the trace remains of the formerly living—they were always stuck on something. He decided to try again. "Monsieur Bouchard, what do you want? Are you waiting for something? Lost love? Revenge?"
The figure flailed its ghostly limbs. "Cooking is a form of art, no less than painting or music. Every note, every stroke has to be just so, or the piece becomes a failure… désastre."
Denton sighed and took a different approach. "Did you reorganize the spices?" No reaction. Denton stepped away and opened the two closest cabinet doors. The ghost whipped around and the doors slammed closed. Denton quickly stepped away.
"Ordre," the ghost thundered. "There must be organization in the kitchen; everything has its place."
Bran, who'd been standing by quietly so far, finally stepped in. "That's enough. You won't get anything useful out of him. It's time to wrap this up."
Denton knew Bran was right. The Great Bouchard was nothing more than a remnant of culinary preoccupations. "All right." Denton took a deep breath and focused on white light filling him. He lifted his hand and was about to blast the vestige of Alphonse Bouchard into the afterlife when he was roughly knocked aside.
"No!" Joy yelled as she rammed Denton into the fridge. Her foot caught in the tablecloth, making her trip and destroying the summoning circle. Immediately the ghost went poof.
"Are you nuts?" Denton huffed.
"I don't want you to banish my Alphonse," Joy declared while disentangling herself from him.
"Why not?" Denton asked. Behind Joy he saw Bran looking as nonplussed as he felt.
Joy, on the other hand, appeared absolutely certain of herself. "I'm not dumb. I could never in my life put together a decent dish. Now I have a haunted Dutch oven and everything I make in it comes out as if Michael Symon himself prepared it. Isn't it obvious?"
Denton gaped at her in disbelief. "You want to keep a pet ghost to cook for you?"
"With me. And why not? He seems like a polite old gentleman. I'm sure he won't spy on me in the shower. He can rearrange the spices all he wants. Heck, the cabinets too."
"But—"
"You said he's not a sentient person, just a fragment, didn't you? So I'm not doing anything immoral or harmful by keeping him."
"Right, but—"
She pulled herself to her whole five feet and put her hands on her hips. "He's my ghost, and you have no right to take him away from me."
Denton turned to Bran for help, but he just shrugged. "Technically she's right. The ghost probably has a short range and will stay close to the pot. Didn't seem violent. We can always come back and smudge the whole apartment if there's a problem."
Denton gave up. "Fine. You can have your ghost. But they are not pets, you know."
"You mean they don't piddle on the carpet?" Joy retorted. "Oh c'mon, let's have a nightcap."
***
One nightcap turned into several while Joy laid out her plans to go back to the antique store where she'd bought the pot. "He said he got it from an estate sale; he might have more pieces from there. If nothing else, he can help me find out more."
"What are you trying to do? Assemble a full haunted kitchen?"
She laughed. "I could open it up to the public on Halloween. But seriously, aren't you even a little curious about the life and times of the Great Alphonse Bouchard?" Denton admitted to be a little intrigued. Joy went on. "Who do you think he meant by Marlene?"
Neither Denton or Bran had a guess, but Joy was already off to another topic. "I still can't believe you keep such secrets from me, Den. And I'm jealous. I wish I could see ghosts. There must be tons of cool things to do with such a skill."
Denton took a swig of his drink. "It's mostly useless, except for that one time I helped Gabe catch a killer." Denton clapped his mouth shut, but it was too late—the words were out. He shouldn't have been drinking. Bran's sharp glare snapping to him seemed to say the same.
&
nbsp; Joy, of course, sank her teeth into this tidbit, like a shark into a juicy tuna. "A killer? What killer? And who's Gabe? You've never told me about him before either. What's up with that?"
"Gabe's a sl…sleuth," Denton almost said slayer—as in vampire slayer—but Joy didn't know a thing about vamps either, and it was probably for the best. Gabe hadn't been doing much slaying these days, at any rate.
"A sleuth?"
"Yeah, as in a PI. Licensed and everything."
"What, you helped a real life private dick? No way!"
"Way!"
Joy raised the bottle of port for a refill, but Denton swiftly covered his glass with his hand. He had no defense against her curiosity. He surrendered and gave a highly sanitized version of the case he and Gabe had worked together. He'd left out the vampire-related parts, including who'd hired them, and completely lied about how the case terminated. "And we handed the guy over to the cops. He made a full confession. The end."
Joy squinted her eyes. "I don't remember hearing about these murders at all."
Denton shrugged as casually as he could fake it. "This town has hundreds of murders every year. Nobody can keep track of them all. The guy plea-bargained, so there was no trial."
Joy's gaze boring straight into his skull suggested she hadn't swallowed his tale hook, line, and sinker. Denton braced for the onslaught of questions, but they never came. Her eyes flickered to Bran and she eased her expression into a smile. "You're full of hidden depths, Ferret Face. A man of mystery, even."
"We should go," Bran said out of nowhere. He'd been as quiet as a shadow through Denton's story, and as indecipherable. His earlier ease had retreated behind a polite mask.
Joy raised the bottle. "One for the road?"
Denton just shook his head, but Bran spoke up. "No thanks, but could I borrow some salt?"
"Sure!" Joy rushed off and came back a minute later with a salt shaker in the shape of a sitting cow. "Also from Aunt Margie," she said. "You can keep it. You sure don't want the pepper shaker too? They came in a pair."
Bran declined, and Joy hugged them both. Bran took his like a man.
***
"You've met with Gabe since the murder case," Bran said in driving away from the curb and into the light traffic.
"Sure, we hang out time to time," Denton replied. "He was away for a long time, so he doesn't have many friends. Especially ones who are not vampires."
"You haven't mentioned it once."
For no discernible reason, Denton felt defensive. "It didn't come up? You don't tell me everything you do." He wasn't sure why he'd kept his get-togethers with Gabe a secret. Was it because the one time Bran and Gabe had met they seemed to rub each other the wrong way? It certainly wasn't because he'd once made a pass at Gabe. Gabe had turned him down and neither of them had mentioned the incident again. It's not like he'd had a crush on the man. He had no reason to feel guilty. "You're like a walking enigma," he retorted. "I probably still wouldn't know about your tail if you hadn’t been stabbed." Denton immediately felt like an ass. Bran had very good reasons to be sensitive about his tail.
"Right." Bran stared straight ahead and said nothing else.
The streets they drove on were dark and deserted. The few people who had to be out on this frigid January night hurried along, bundled in bulky coats.
"So, what's the salt for?" Denton asked in hopes of moving the conversation to calmer waters.
"I want to test something."
"Test what?" Denton pressed on stubbornly.
"You told Joy about using salt in summoning the spirits of the dead, but it has a similar effect on demonic entities—they can't cross it. Hurts them too much."
"So if you're half-demon, what does it do to you?"
"Fortunately, I'm not affected. Except my tail. It breaks out in a rash. Anyway, salt can also be used to detect demonic traces. It's a crude method and there are better ones, but I don't have my bag with me."
"You mean, salt will do in a pinch?" Denton snickered.
Bran groaned. "Yes."
They got lucky looking for a parking spot on Sedgwick Street—someone was leaving just as they got there.
The name pinged Denton's memory. "This is the street where Lenny saw the frog, isn't it?"
"Right. We're looking for a waist-high wall with flower pots on top. You take this side, I'll take the other." Bran crossed the road.
Denton buttoned up his coat and wrapped a long wool scarf around his face before getting on. He came upon the first viable candidate halfway up the second block. He yelled over to Bran, who sprinted back across the street.
"Did Lenny say which side of the gate?" Bran asked.
Denton shook his head, and pulled his coat tighter around himself. It was fricking cold and the wind chilled him to the bone. It would snow soon.
Bran took out the porcelain cow, held it close to his lips, and whispered a few words. When he sprinkled the salt onto the dirt in the pot left of the gate nothing happened. He sprinkled some into the pot on the right, and was rewarded with a brief sparkle. "Hm."
"So it's a positive, I take it," Bran said through chattering teeth. "Not exactly a surprise, is it? Can we go now? I'm freezing." Denton was now grateful for not wearing a kilt. He expected Bran be at least slightly smug about it, but Bran's thoughts seemed miles away as they wordlessly walked back to the car.
The faraway expression remained with him as they drove a couple of blocks north, then right toward Lakeshore Drive. The Lincoln Park neighborhood stretched between a branch of the Chicago River and Lake Michigan. The actual park lay along the shore to the east. It had a Zoo, a couple of ponds, a Nature Museum, and the Conservatory with two huge green houses.
"This site used to be a cemetery. Several cemeteries, actually," Bran said as they pulled onto Fullerton Parkway. "And in a way it still is. David, my friend at the Historical Society, thinks there are still thousands of bodies buried here."
Denton stared out into the darkness. The place was deserted, but on a summer night there would be lovers on the grass. "So we could've come here to collect graveyard dust?" he asked but got no reply.
Bran drove past the Conservatory and made a right onto Fullerton Parkway. "This is where it happened," he said as they passed a gate.
Denton barely caught a glimpse of a sign, but only two words on it made sense to him: Lily Pool. "The Lily Pool?" he asked. "The place where you and Peter…"
"The place where I turned my lover into a frog."
The word lover stung, but Denton ignored it. "You didn't mean to. Layla said spontaneous spell throwing could happen to any young witch, and you were only sixteen. And he called you a freak because of your tail."
Bran snorted derisively but said nothing.
Denton refused let the subject drop. "You don't think there's a connection? There can't be. It happened fourteen years ago. And anyway what could a decade-and-a-half-old transfiguration spell have to do with a present-day possession?"
"Transmutation spell. Nothing. Yet it's strange. Fate keeps reminding me of Peter for a reason. He and I are not yet finished with each other."
"Great," was all Denton managed to reply. He'd first learned about Peter after meeting Bran's mother, but the depth of Bran's fixation with his old lover had been dawning on him ever since. Bran had once asked him to summon Peter's spirit. Denton had tried but failed. Yet the matter didn't rest. Even now Peter's memory seemed to sit between them. The street lamps they passed under threw light on Bran's features for brief seconds between the darkness. Bran wasn't easy to read at the best of times, but right then Denton had no idea what was on Bran's mind. Silence thick as mud filled the car.
SPIRIT STALKER
Chapter One
It was a gray February morning, but Denton woke to a warm, slender tail resting between his thighs. He'd spooned behind Bran sometime during the night—Bran's naked back beat any electric blanket for warmth and comfort on a cold winter night. Murky, half-remembered dreams had left Denton with
a deep yearning and a hard dick. He canted his hips more by instinct than anything, and buried his nose into the nape of Bran's neck. Bran smelled so…Bran—earthy and spicy, as if marked by the herbs crowding the apartment.
Denton wanted Bran to himself alone, and his head was still too muzzy to acknowledge the silliness of being jealous of plants. He yearned to make his own mark on his lover. He bared his teeth and bit the curve of Bran's neck—not hard but firm.
The rhythm of Bran's breathing quickened and he stirred. "Mmm…" He curled his tail around Denton's balls. The appendage was even more agile than a finger and Bran knew how to use it.
The pressure squeezed a gasp from Denton and he moved his hips again, with more gusto, rubbing his cock against Bran's backside. He slipped a hand down the planes of Bran's chest and stomach to the humid jungle of Bran's crotch and met an answering hardness there. Bran thrust into his grip. Denton bit again, but harder this time, pinching the skin between his teeth.
Bran hissed and uncoiled his tail from around Denton's privates. He shifted and rolled till Denton was pinned underneath him, and he bent his head over Denton's chest. His teeth clinked against the stud piercing Denton's nipple as he scraped them over the skin.
The spine-tingling sensation of pain and pleasure made Denton arch his back and push his groin to Bran's. As they wrestled the blanket slid onto the floor and the sheets turned into a crumpled mess. It was a rough and tumble affair, half sex, half battle for control. Bran was bigger and stronger but Denton fought dirty. Their cocks trapped between their sweat-slicked bodies ached for release. Denton came first, and Bran kept rutting, rubbing his cock in the sticky mess. Soon his movement became erratic. Denton squeezed his fingers hard around Bran's ass cheeks and nipped at one of Bran's earlobes. Bran came with a guttural groan.
"Huh." Denton let out a contented sigh as Bran rolled off him. "The old ad lied, the best part of waking up is definitely not coffee. Second best maybe."
"Coffee's already brewing," Bran said, pushing himself up on an elbow and looking across Denton to the alarm clock. He went very still and frowned. "It's late. I should get moving." He rolled out of bed and strolled out of the room without a backward look.
