by Harper, Lou
Her words encouraged Denton to raise a probing question. "What can you tell me about your uncle? It would help me if I knew more about him."
"Well, Uncle Carl—we called him Carl—was my father's younger brother. He was very handsome and charming. And I used to think the world of him—he was fun, buying us kids ice cream, playing with us."
"Did you see him often?"
"Not till he moved to Springfield. Before, we saw him maybe once a year, but after the move he came around all the time. But then…I don't know…something changed and I started to feel uncomfortable around him."
"Like how?"
Lyn shifted uneasily in her seat. Her words came slow at first. "We used to roughhouse—I was a tomboy—but then the way he touched me…it didn't feel right. I was fourteen you see; all I knew about sex was what my friend Lucy told me, but I knew something was off. So I wouldn't do it anymore. He acted as if it was nothing, but I caught him giving me these looks, like his gaze was crawling under my skin." She shuddered.
"Then Lucy disappeared?"
"You know about Lucy too?" Her face twisted. "It was terrible. She was my friend."
"Do you think it's possible Uncle Carl killed her?"
She recoiled, shaking her head, but the apprehension of truth was in her twisted expression. She took a choking breath and stilled. "I…don't know. Not something you want to believe about a family member, is it? But…" She looked away, toward the window, but her eyes seemed out of focus, as if recalling old memories. She turned back to Denton. "I'm sure you know he died a few days after Lucy disappeared."
Denton nodded and let her talk.
"I was there when it happened. He and dad were working on the roof, Uncle Carl stepped wrong or tripped or something—I don't know. I heard the crash and there he was lying on the grass. He broke his neck. I'll never forget it—he looked straight at me and said you're next. It was such a strange thing to say, and it scared the hell out of me, but I've never told anyone about it. Uncle Carl died in the hospital before the next morning."
"It must have been a terrible experience."
"Yes, but that's not all. He's been haunting my dreams ever since. I've had the most terrible nightmares of him doing…things to me…" Her eyes shone dangerously. "I'm sorry, I don't want to talk about it."
Hiding his shock over the revelation, Denton reached out and patted her hand. "It's okay, you don't have to. I get the picture." To be honest, he didn't want to know the content of her dreams.
A girl came out from behind the counter with a couple of baskets with sandwiches and chips. Putting them on the table in exchange for the number sign she shot Denton a wary look. At this rate he'd be Chicago's most unwanted by the end of the year, he realized with resignation.
Lyn picked up a sole chip out of her basket but didn't get as far as putting it into her mouth. "I saw a psychotherapist for years and got to talk a lot about my parents and other things, but none of it made the dreams go away. So if you're telling me I'm not doing this to myself but it's him, well it's kind of a relief, you know. You said you could see ghosts. Did you see his face?"
"I only see vague shapes, sorry. But I smelled cigarette smoke when it was around. Did Uncle Carl smoke?"
"Two packs a day. What did you actually see?"
"Well, the first time, in the alley, the spirit was crouched over your chest. I thought you were dying. But then I saw the spirit again at your apartment—it was closely attached to your son. I wonder if it's the imaginary friend."
Her eyes got very big. "Oh my God. We called Uncle Carlton Carl, but other people in the family called him Tony—like Sean's friend." She leaned forward with renewed urgency. "You said you can make him go away."
The hope and desperation in her voice lay heavily on Denton. "It'll be tricky. The spirit seems attached more to your son, but clearly it can move about freely. Like when we found you."
"Oh, I had just dropped Sean off at his friend's place for a sleepover. Right across from where you found me. I popped into a store on my way to the car."
"Hm."
Lyn grabbed Denton's hand. "I'll pay you anything you want if you get rid of this thing for me. Please," she pleaded.
Denton put his free hand on hers and gently squeezed. "I will. I just don't exactly know how yet. I need a plan. The spirit is aware of me, I'm afraid." The seriousness of the situation registered stronger than ever before. Denton realized he was out of his depth. He needed help. He needed Bran. "I have to talk this over with my partner. Bran's the brains of the operation." She visibly sagged hearing this, so he added, "I will figure this out and let you know very soon. Is it okay to call you at work?" He kept his tone light and reassuring—he didn't want to pile his own fears and doubts on top of hers.
"Sure." She gave him all her numbers and emails. Denton thanked her, and didn't tell her he already knew them thanks to Gabe. Lyn picked up half her sandwich, but dropped it back down after a few bites. "I'm not hungry. I better go." She rushed back to work.
Denton grabbed the other half of her sandwich and moved it into his basket. She hadn't touched it—would've been a shame to waste good food, and he could think better on a full stomach. He had a lot of thinking to do.
***
First thing upon arriving home, Denton went to his own apartment, changed back into his kilt, then marched next door and into Bran's study. "I need your help," he announced.
Bran looked up from a particularly old and frail tome. "Are you sure? You seem to do well on your own. Or with your friend, Gabe. Maybe you should ask him. I'll just slow you down."
It was so out of character for Bran to be snippy, Denton was at loss for words. But not for very long. He was too fucking worked up. "I would if I had a vampire problem. Gabe's good at those—he and Harvey police rogue vamps or something. It's an odd arrangement, considering one of them is a vamp and the other's a slayer. Ex-slayer. But love conquers all, and all that jazz. Meanwhile, I have a homicidal spirit and I figured your knowledge could come in handy. I'll be in the living room, in case you decide to stop being a dick, and start being helpful." He stormed out, but barely flung himself onto the couch when Bran appeared.
"So they're serious?" Bran asked. He wore a rare sheepish expression.
"Who? The spirit?"
"Harvey and Gabe."
It surprised Denton Bran took any interest. "Like a heart attack. Gabe even gave up eating meat, so Harvey could be a vegetarian vampire. I don't know how it works, don't ask me. But Harvey has Gabe dick-whipped for sure. I think Harvey at one point was even jealous of me. Totally nuts."
"Yeah, nuts." Bran sounded kinda odd.
Denton gave him a sharp gaze. "What? You're looking at me funny. Please don't tell me you want to give up meat."
"No, nothing of the sort."
"Oh, good, because I don't think I could give up pepperoni pizza. There's something about spicy sausages I can't resist."
Bran sat down next to Denton and laid his hand on Denton's boney knee. "Good to know. Now about this spirit…"
Denton recounted his conversation with Lyn, and his own thoughts. "I reckon the most tenacious aspect of Carlton Gorman was his homicidal urge and this compulsion was what stayed behind, and now it is trying to take over the little kid."
"Yes, from what you told me, this is the most feasible explanation. This is extremely troubling. We must stop it before the spirit does warp the kid in its own image."
Denton liked Bran's use of we. They were a team. "Exactly my thinking. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll have an easy time getting rid of the fucker. You remember what happened last time. The bastard is on to me. When I was over at Lyn's place it vanished the second it spotted me."
"So what are you suggesting?"
"I dunno. The spirit's closely connected with Sean, even if not quite tied to him. It would almost be easier if it possessed the kid."
"I can't help you there."
"The spirit hasn't seen you yet though."
"True."
/>
"So, theoretically, if Lyn brought Sean here, chances are the spirit would come with them and you could trap it quick before it could vanish." The whole case still filled Denton with anxiety, but having Bran on board gave him a jolt of energy.
"There are a few flaws in your thinking."
"Like what?"
"First of all, I can sense spirits but can't actually see them, so I wouldn't know if this one was exactly where we needed it to be at the critical moment. Secondly, we'd have to draw a trap ahead of time, and a spirit as perceptive as this might notice a bunch of magic symbols on the floor, and get jumpy. And finally, it fought you last time. My guess, it'll fight you again."
"Wet blanket," Denton grumbled, but he had to admit, Bran was right on every point. He kept playing with his eyebrow stud as he tossed arguments around in his head, looking at them from every possible angle. Slowly, an idea began to emerge. "I have a cunning plan," he said once it took shape. "You said necromancy was about communicating with the dead, right?"
"Yes. What are you driving at?"
Denton grinned. "I think it's time I make a few new friends. But first I need to talk to Gabe. Don't have a conniption."
"Me? Never. Go ahead." Bran said with a straight face and leaned back, but kept his eyes on Denton.
Denton fished his phone out of the handy-dandy pocket of his kilt and called Gabe, quickly explaining what he needed. Next he laid out the whole plan to Bran, who declared it tricky but not impossible, and made a couple of useful suggestions. Buoyed by newfound confidence and the enthusiasm in Bran's eyes, Denton hooked his leg around Bran's knee. Immediately he saw Bran giving him a pained look. "What?" he asked.
"Your socks."
Denton looked down at his own feet and realized he'd kicked one of his socks off and it was somewhere under the coffee table. "My feet are too warm," he explained.
Bran sighed. "Other people lose socks. I think yours are multiplying. Like rabbits. They are everywhere. The other day I found one between the basil and the hyssop."
Denton lifted his foot—the one still covered—and planted it on Bran's thigh. "You mean you don't have a wild and uncontrollable kink for my socks anymore?" The sock in question was gray and red and had a simple but ingenious design of a shark swallowing his calf—a motif that would've gotten lost if he wore jeans.
Bran placed a hand on Denton's shin. "Sadly, I still do. And developing another one for man-skirts."
"Kilts," Denton corrected. "Oof, it tickles," he added as Bran's fingers brushed the back of his knee.
There was a glint in Bran's eyes and the corners of his lip curled and somehow it made Denton's heart beat faster. Bran leaned forward just a shade, more intent than action, but it was all Denton needed.
"Sexy bastard," Denton murmured and wrapped his arms around Bran's neck. Denton thought of himself as the instigator but Bran turned the tables. Bran pushed him down onto the cushions and claimed him with a forceful kiss. Their lips and tongues met in wet skirmish where there were no losers. All the while Denton felt Bran's hand sliding up his inner thigh excruciatingly slow. It was unclear which one of them was meant to tantalize more.
Bran stilled the moment he reached the naked truth. He pulled back, although he kept his hand where it was—on Denton's hard and naked cock. "I was sure you were kidding."
"I never kid," Denton rasped.
"Riiight."
"Not about underwear. Well, lack of underwear." Denton canted his hips to motivate Bran for more action. "Easy access—what did I tell you?"
Bran gave a lazy stroke. "You're incorrigible."
"I sure hope so." Denton stuck his tongue out—he knew his tongue stud would serve as a reminder of many past pleasures.
Bran's eyes were impossibly black to begin with and couldn't possibly get darker, but the growly sound coming deep from his throat made up for it. Goosebumps skittered across Denton's skin as Bran used his free hand to tug the white shirt out from under the kilt's waistband and push it up to Denton's armpits. He leaned forward and flicked the nipple ring with his tongue.
A sound between groan and whimper escaped Denton's lips and he arched his chest up, toward Bran's exploring lips. They travelled from nipple to nipple and up to the crook of Denton's neck. Bran nibbled on his ears and whispered filthy things into them. At least, Denton assumed from the tone they were filthy, since they weren't in English. Bran's usual cool reserve peeling off and revealing a lecherous devil beneath had Denton's engines revving more than anything. To feel someone normally so controlled and reticent shiver from desire under his touch was the greatest aphrodisiac.
Denton squeezed his hands between them to undo Bran's belt and zipper. Bran's cock felt hot and heavy; in his mind eye Denton could picture the thick veins running its length and thatch of curly hair at its base. Denton was so fucking ready and for far more than mutual handjobs. He nipped Bran's jaw right below the ear and whispered, "If you don't fuck me right now I'll explode and you'll have messy necromancer bits all over. It'll take days to clean up."
Bran let out a ragged chuckle and pulled back. Denton assumed they'd head for the bedroom and began to rise, but Bran pushed him back with a hand on his chest. "Stay." His voice rang with a tone of command.
So Denton stayed as he was, in a lewd, half-naked display with his shirt up to his neck, kilt bunched around his waist, erect cock showing, and one foot socked, other naked. "How come every time I end up looking like a cheap tart, while you're still dressed?" he griped half-heartedly.
Bran's lips slowly curved and parted in a predatory smile that made Denton's heart thump. "Cheap tart suits you." Bran said. He shed his clothes in a flash, and he was gloriously naked. He had narrow hips and wide shoulders, and smooth, olive skin stretched over sinuous muscles. Times like this it seemed almost inconceivable he'd find a skinny runt like Denton desirable. But the naked hunger in his eyes said otherwise. Bran kneeled between Denton's legs—but not before grabbing the throw from the back of the couch and shoving it under Denton's ass. Thoughtful to a fault.
"Lub—" Denton started but bit his word short as he saw Bran reach to a shelf under the coffee table. He watched as Bran pulled out a clay jar, opened its lid, and dipped his fingers inside.
The smell reminded Denton of spring—fresh cut grass and rain. The first touch of it felt cool on his skin, but as Bran worked it deeply inside him another sort of sensation spread over him. It was…he couldn't find the word for it—not exactly tingling, and definitely not an itch but something similarly relentless and demanding of attention.
"How is it?" Bran asked watching Denton's face.
"G-good," was all Denton could say. He pushed back against Bran's fingers. "More," he demanded.
Bran eased his cock inside slowly and as he did the increasing fullness and friction set Denton's nerve endings on fire. As Denton wrapped his legs around him, Bran lowered himself onto Denton. Sweat slicked their skin from groin to chest as their hips rocked back and forth in a tenacious chase for release. Denton reached the peak first and stayed there for a moment trembling, his whole body arching and pulling tight. Bran groaned with him and thrust hard but out of rhythm a few more times. Head bowed, Bran breathed heavily into Denton's neck.
With a final huff, Bran pulled out and lay down, half wedged between the couch and Denton and half on top of Denton. For long minutes neither of them said a word.
"I think you fucked my brains out," Denton quipped at last. "What was that lubricant? Did you make it?"
"Uh-huh. Some herbs and a touch of witchcraft. To enhance pleasure." As Bran spoke, his breath tickled Denton's skin.
"Well, it sure worked." Denton still felt the lingering aftereffects. "Does it affect you too?"
"Half as much since I'm half-human."
"You've been planning this, haven't you? Good thing the jar was right here."
"I left other ones in the bedroom and bathroom too."
"What, not the kitchen?"
Bran sighed. "We should get up."
/>
"Yeah," Denton agreed, but neither of them twitched a muscle.
Chapter Five
Getting all his ghostly ducks in a row took Denton longer than he would've liked, but he refused to leave anything to chance. The stakes were too high. If they didn't successfully banish the murderous remains of Carlton Gorman now, chances were they never would. He and Bran were excruciatingly thorough in their preparations. A week after meeting Lyn in the sandwich shop he was finally ready to have another go at Uncle Carl.
As instructed, Lyn Burke had talked to people about taking Sean to a child psychiatrist for his behavioral problems—every time within earshot of the boy, and—hopefully—his imaginary friend. Then, the day before the Big Night she called Bran from home and set up an appointment for the next evening. Before leaving home, she put a few drops of a potion prepared by Bran into Sean's cocoa. Bran via Denton assured her the potion was harmless, but would make the boy drowsy.
The sun set at half past five and by 6:30 p.m. it was completely dark outside. Denton crouching on the balcony among empty flowerpots was nothing but a shadow worthy of no one's attention. The living room, on the other hand, bathed in light—thanks to the ceiling light and not one but two floor lamps. Denton had an excellent view.
Lyn Burke arrived at quarter to seven, carrying the sleepy Sean in her arms. She barely flinched spotting Murry sitting atop a tall dresser they'd moved to its current position a few hours ago. They'd rearranged the living room for the occasion, rolling up the carpet and moving it and a few other few pieces of furniture into the study and the bedroom.
Three chairs, well spaced out, occupied the middle of the room now. One of them sat on a plastic floor mat. Denton watched as Lyn sat Sean down on it and stepped away, all the way to the doorway. From his vantage point he could clearly see the murky shape of the spirit clinging to the boy.
"Go," Denton whispered into his phone.
Bran's shoulder-length hair hid the Bluetooth headset he wore in one ear. Without even glancing in Denton's direction he leaned down and picked up the box of sea salt from the bottom shelf of the book case and used it to draw a circle around the chair. At the same time Murry stood up on his hind legs and reached a paw for the light switch directly above him. The moment the salt circle closed, the room went dark and the pentagram and the symbols under the chair glowed in pale yellow. It had been Denton's idea to use ultra-violet fluorescent ink for drawing and to put bulbs producing blacklight into the floor lamps.
