The Ghost Host: Episode 2 (The Ghost Host Series)

by DelSheree Gladden

  Again, I know he’s right in a logical sense, but that doesn’t exactly take away the guilt piling onto my shoulders.

  “I can’t believe your dad told you about me sleeping with Malachi. Is nothing sacred?”

  Griffin chuckles. “He wasn’t gossiping. He was trying to keep himself from strangling Malachi and needed someone to talk him down. It’s been a while since he’s been that age. He’s been firmly in dad territory, particularly when it comes to young women, for a good three decades now.”

  “But I told him it was my fault,” I argue. “I’m still not sure how I did it, but I’m certain I did. He tried to stop and I wouldn’t let him.”

  He doesn’t argue with me about it like everyone else has. His quiet acceptance of my claim is strangely comforting. I not only get the impression that he believes me, but that he trusts I’ll figure out how to control it. I’m struck again by how this entire conversation should be incredibly awkward, but isn’t. Given that we’ve only known each other a few hours, sex shouldn’t be a topic of conversation at all. Yet, I have no problem talking about it with him. Apparently, neither does he.

  “What is Malachi more upset about, that you’ve put your relationship with him on hold, or that the others still judge him for what happened?”

  I frown. “You don’t think he’s just pissed at me for doing what I did?”

  Griffin snorts. “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wouldn’t be so eager to jump to your defense if he was that angry with you. Maybe it scared him, but he’s not going to let that alone stop him from winning you back,” he says. “That leaves two options.”

  I can already tell Griffin’s knack for being right all the time is going to get on my nerves. “The first one.”

  “Putting the relationship on hold? You sound pretty sure.”

  “He already blames himself, so he thinks he deserves everyone else’s blame, too. I don’t think he trusts the reasons I gave for why I broke things off…or pressed the pause button on us or whatever.”

  Finally, Griffin sits up and turns to face me. “And what reasons were those?”

  “The whole commanding thing,” I say with a wave of my arm, “along with being completely overwhelmed trying to handle a relationship in the middle of everything else.”

  Griffin considers my answer for a few seconds before saying, “Both perfectly valid reasons.”

  “Exactly,” I say firmly.

  “So, I’m guessing Malachi thinks at least part of it has to do with Kyran, right?”

  I whip my head around to stare at him with an open mouth. “What?”

  Griffin gives me a look that reminds me way too much of his dad. “You’re not going to deny it, are you?”

  “I, no, I mean, how…”

  “How did I guess Kyran’s got a thing for you and you’re confused by what you feel for him?” Griffin gives me a look that says my question is insulting. “There’s practically a flashing neon sign above Kyran’s head. His gaze follows you from the moment you enter the room, but he’s equally aware of Malachi—both as competition and because he doesn’t want to hurt his friend. He doesn’t know what to do any more than you or Malachi do.”

  “I didn’t break up with Malachi because of Kyran,” I snap.

  Griffin watches me, holding my gaze unrelentingly. “Did you actually break up with Malachi, or just put things on hold? That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

  Sinking into my chair, I press my hands to my face. “I don’t know,” I groan. “I can’t date him if his feelings are based on our bond, or if I’m capable of making him do things against his will…or if I have feelings for his best friend.” My voice breaks on the last few words, because that seems like the worst betrayal of all of them. “I don’t want to hurt Malachi, but I don’t know how to avoid that anymore.”

  There’s no judgment in Griffin’s expression as he regards me. “It’s tough,” he agrees. “Even if you definitely end a romantic relationship with Malachi, moving on to his best friend will still feel like a knife in the back.”

  “I’m not even saying that’s what I’d want,” I argue. “I just don’t think it’s right to be with someone when you aren’t sure of your feelings.”

  “Which is a fair argument.”

  “But it doesn’t make it any better,” I say with a sigh. Griffin shakes his head, acknowledging my miserable situation, and we fall into silence.

  The silence lasts long enough for thoughts of why I’m out on the deck with Griffin to shove their way back in. When I fainted, I came back out of it within seconds. Everyone was crowded around me, and no one appreciated Griffin keeping them all back. Malachi was furious—which has been his go-to response lately any time anyone else tries to step in as my protector. Kyran was only slightly less pissed off. As usual, Holden was the most rational, rolling his eyes at his cousin flipping out. He almost had to drag Zara away from me to make sure I was all right.

  Cerise took charge of calming everyone down while Griffin stood and carried me toward the deck to get some fresh air. That’s where we left them and I dread leaving my chair. I know I can’t hide out here forever. Griffin’s presence has made the already thick tension between my friends even worse, but I have no intention of asking him to disappear.

  “You know who Phibe’s message was talking about, don’t you?” Griffin asks.

  I close my eyes and dig deep for the strength to answer him. “Do you know who Martin Coulter is?”

  Griffin nods. “He’s the ghost who terrified you into delivering a message to his wife, who then murdered the man she believed was responsible for her husband’s death.”

  “Except he wasn’t responsible,” I whisper.

  Griffin nods again. “Coulter’s death was an accident, car wreck caused by bad weather.” He frowns, considering the situation. “You said Coulter disappeared after you sent the message to his wife.”

  “He did.” I swallow hard, my throat closing up and trapping the words behind a wall of fear.

  “If it’s not Coulter threatening you, then who…”

  I’ve always feared that terrible moment of weakness would come back to haunt me. I let the nightmares, the pain, the utter chaos of my life at that time, pressure me into giving in to Martin Coulter, even though I knew I shouldn’t believe him. I protected myself at the cost of another man’s life.

  Griffin realizes the truth and falls back against his chair. “Kurt Francis, the man Coulter’s wife killed.”

  “If any spirit has a reason to remain, restless and searching for vengeance…it’s him.”

  I stare out at the courtyard between the apartment buildings, at a handful of kids playing in the pool and two elderly women walking their dogs. They’re unaware of the dangers around them, of the wandering ghosts who regularly patrol this complex, or whose fault it is they congregate here. None of them know I hold the fate of the supernatural world, and their lives, in my hands. Only Griffin and I know that the mistake of a ten-year-old, terrified girl might tip the balance and give Death the upper hand.

  4: Old Wounds

  (Echo)

  I try to ignore the sound of the door opening. I have three questions left on the quiz and I’m pretty sure I’ve missed at least half of the ones I’ve already answered. The conjugations I attempted to memorize simply aren’t coming to me, and a familiar voice doesn’t improve my chances of passing this quiz at all. My head pops up and I stare at Griffin in surprise.

  “Pardonnez moi,” he says. He keeps saying more stuff, but that’s all I catch, and I’m only moderately sure I know what that one means.

  My French professor, who usually looks like she’s dreaming of being in France rather than teaching about it in the university’s language lab, is suddenly wide awake and babbling back to Griffin too quickly for me have even a prayer of translating. Her middle-aged, slightly wrinkly cheeks flush pink at whatever he says back to her, and she babbles again.

  I’m dying to know
what Griffin is doing here, but the time limit on my quiz is running out. I glance back down, click on my best guess, and cruise through the last few questions pretty much the same way. I’m closing down the program and quickly gathering my things when Ms. Carpenter finally switches back to English.

  “Where did you learn to speak so well?” she gushes. “You barely have any accent at all.”

  Griffin’s brow inches up by a tiny degree, as though offended she suggested he has any accent at all. “Quantico.”

  Ms. Carpenter blinks and she seems unsure of whether or not she heard him right. Griffin helps her out, gentleman that he is, and hands her his FBI badge—which, I’ll admit, is probably a bit of a surprise given that Griffin walked in here in jeans and a faded softball jersey.

  Most of the class is still focused on their quizzes. The few who aren’t are now staring at my friend, then at me when I stand and nearly knock my chair over when I try to shoulder my bag. We still have half an hour of class, so they seem to realize the underdressed FBI agent at the front of the lab is here for me. I can only imagine the reasons they’re considering for why that might be.

  “I do apologize for interrupting class to steal Echo, but we’ve both been called in for a case and it can’t wait,” Griffin says with practiced regret.

  Ms. Carpenter’s eyes widen. “Echo? Good Lord, she’s not training to be a linguist too, is she?”

  Griffin bites back a smile and doesn’t look at me as I come around the last row of desks. “Uh, no,” he reassures my professor, “but she is needed and I’m afraid I have to take her with me.”

  “Will you please help her with her pronunciation and conjugations?” she begs.

  I sigh and try not to be too offended. It’s a fair question. Now that I know he actually speaks French and his offer to help wasn’t empty, I want an answer too.

  Griffin smiles and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “Absolutely.”

  “Thank goodness. I really hate failing people.”

  Clearing his throat to avoid laughing, again, Griffin says goodbye in French and tows me out into the hall. As soon as we’re clear of the lab, I say, “What case? And you really are going to help me with my French, right?”

  “You know as much about the case as I do at this point,” he says. “I got a text from Dad saying I needed to pick you up and that my vacation is postponed while I’m on loan to him for this case.”

  “On loan? For how long?”

  Griffin shrugs. “Guess we’ll both see.”

  We’re both quiet as we exit the building and head for the parking lot. A case? I’ve never been involved in a case before. I didn’t think I would be any time in the near future. I only recently got my consultant credentials—something I was sure Morton had had to pull a lot of strings to secure. The plan was supposed to be me reviewing cases, wandering around a few locations related to unsolved cases, keep an eye out for ghosts…easy stuff. Stuff that keeps my parents from finding out what my real job is. I guess I won’t have to deal with the fallout from them realizing I kind of joined the FBI to hunt ghosts and demons and whatever else is out there…and that I got killed on a case, but still. What happened to easing me into this whole FBI thing?

  “This is why his meeting took so long last night,” I say as we reach the car.

  Griffin hesitates. “That’s my guess.”

  He doesn’t know anything more, so I keep my questions to myself and get into the car. Griffin sits down a few seconds later, then glances over at me. “Is your car here?”

  I shake my head. “I usually ride the train since I can never find parking anyway.”

  Griffin nods and we’re off. The drive to the office is quiet. I can tell Griffin is anxious about us both being pulled into this case. So am I, but even more I can’t help wondering if Morton’s meeting went so long last night because he was arguing to keep me off the case or on it. He understands me better than anyone, even my friends. I still don’t know what special skills led to him being recruited to the paranormal investigations division of the FBI, but he gets my limits in a way no one else does. Will this push me past them?

  I have no clue, and all I can do is trust my mentor as Griffin pulls into the garage and parks the car. He gets out first, and is waiting for me by the time I make myself get out. As soon as I reach him. He slings an arm over my shoulder and gives me a gentle squeeze. “He wouldn’t have agreed to this if he didn’t think you were capable.”

  Glancing up at him, I study his expression from my lower vantage point. He’s four or five inches taller than me, just enough to make his presence incredibly reassuring. His dad has the same annoying habit of answering questions I didn’t actually ask. My eyes narrow as I wonder why Griffin was pulled in as well.

  We only get as far as the lobby before we almost run into Morton. “It’s about time,” he grumbles.

  “Campus parking…” Griffin shrugs.

  Shaking his head, Morton directs us back toward the entrance to the garage. Confused, Griffin has to grab my arm and give me a good yank before I start moving. It’s barely anything, but I notice Morton glance back at his son with a dark expression. Not sure what that’s about, I cross my arms and keep my distance from both of them until we reach the car. Neither man offers to open my door, but that’s nothing new. Morton treats me like he would any other agent. I’m no princess, so I can get my own damn door. Apparently Griffin has a similar attitude. I smile, appreciating that they don’t treat me like a kid or an invalid.

  Morton is already backing out of the space before I can get my seatbelt buckled. As soon as he has the car in drive, he’s talking. “Six-year-old boy was pulled from his biological mother after accusations of abuse. She claimed the injuries were self-inflicted or accidental, that the boy had nightmares and would get up in the middle of the night to either run through the house screaming or would be found having some kind of fit in his room. After the boy was removed, things got better and the abuse allegations were looking more and more justified.”

  “But…” I ask.

  “They’ve started again. Foster mom says she found him in his bed thrashing around and screaming, and realized after she finally got him calmed down that his arms and legs were covered in bruises.”

  “You don’t believe her,” Griffin says, not a question but a statement.

  Morton glances back at his son, then shakes his head. “I don’t think she hurt the boy, but she’s not telling the truth about what happened.” Griffin nods slowly, processing his answer. While he considers the situation, Morton turns his attention to me. “First impressions?”

  “Well,” I say, “given that this case was turned over to you…I’m guessing no one can explain what’s happening to this boy, and abuse is an easy answer for kids dealing with dangerous supernatural talents or beings.”

  The corner of Morton’s mouth turns up, a hint of pride in his expression. “The boy may have legitimate psychological issues causing him to self-harm.”

  “But he deserves the chance for someone to believe him that it might be something else.”

  Morton nods, his jaw tightening.

  One day, I’m going to figure out what my boss can do, and why he once said his psych file was worse than mine. Not today, though.

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “Timothy.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Morton glances over at me, then back to the road. “See if anyone else is hanging around and just talk to him. You’ll be able to tell better than anyone whether or not he’s lying.”

  I frown. “What’s he saying is happening to him?”

  “He says his dreams are attacking him at night.”

  My muscles tense and my breaths seem harder to catch.

  “Echo?” Griffin asks calmly.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper.

  Recognition hovers at the edges of my thoughts. If I talk about it, I’ll have to think about it. Think about Martin Coulter, what he terrified me into d
oing, what that decision may end up costing me. I hate those memories, not only because of Kurt Francis’s death, but because of what trying to resist Coulter did to my life. Thinking about how my parents turned against me rips apart old wounds that never truly healed. I barely survived that period of my life with my sanity intact. Can I do it again?

  I have to. If I want to help this boy, what other choice do I have?

  Reaching back, I find Griffin’s hand taking mine without ever having to ask. Morton grunts his displeasure at the contact, but I don’t care. Whatever he’s thinking is most likely wrong. I’ll deal with his overprotectiveness later. Right now, I have to survive my worst childhood memories if I have any chance of saving this little boy.

  5: Blind

  (Griffin)

  As soon as we step out of the car—putting Dad and I next to each other with Echo on the other side—he glares at me. He doesn’t appreciate it when I ignore him and walk away. He asked for my help. Now he wants to judge me on how I give it? Normally, he and I get along very well, just not when he tries to tell me how to do my job. Not that Echo is a job. She’s…in trouble. Just like the kid she’s about to try to save.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” Echo whispers when I come up next to her.

  “Stay focused on the boy.”

  Echo nods and keeps her eyes focused directly ahead of her.

  I can only imagine what memories this might be bringing up for her. Dad gave me a rundown of all the people in her life, what led to her being in Georgia, and why things are so precarious right now, but he didn’t exactly roll out the documentary of her early life beyond the incident with Martin Coulter putting Echo on his radar.

  The doors of the hospital slide open as we approach. Echo flinches, and at first I think she was startled by the doors. Then her panic fills the space around us. I see her eyes darting around manically and realize it’s the hospital making her panic. No doubt she doesn’t have a lot of positive feelings toward doctors or medical facilities. Dad still doesn’t like them either. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, daring Dad to say something. He merely grunts and walks past us, taking the lead.