Ghost Killer

by Robin D. Owens

  “We’ll extinguish you,” Zach promised savagely. “You killer ghost.” He thrust at the thing hovering in the window with the sheathed knife.

  A gasp, more than a gasp. All the air seemed sucked from the room. Clare panted, spots forming in front of her eyes. Zach leaned on his cane. His longish black hair blew away from his face. His jaw gritted.

  Enzo wailed in her mind, then the coldness vanished just as quickly as it came. Clare sensed the phantom had withdrawn once again up to the start of Bachelor Loop and the confluence of the Willow creeks. The thing moved a little differently now. Slower if it wanted to bring wind and weather; faster if it just wanted to fight. Clare swallowed.

  Zach’s inhaled breath sounded as deep as the ghost’s . . . well, it sounded, which was a blessing. He placed the knife carefully on the corner of the bed near him.

  Clare heard the faint murmur of other voices, probably people next door. Yes, this was definitely a hotel built in 1905 without any soundproofing. She’d have to remember that next time they made love.

  Zach cleared his throat, and Clare got the idea that the talk with the apparition, its manipulation of the atmosphere, had clogged him up some. A side of his mouth lifted. “We seem to be holding our own.”

  His words had her checking that inner wound of hers. Yes, it hurt . . . actually stung like it had ripped open even more, and ached. She didn’t say anything, wasn’t sure, now, what might possibly cure it. Perhaps the death of the ghost. Maybe.

  She answered him. “Holding our own. That’s important.”

  “Yes, it is.” He zipped closed the inner pocket of her suitcase and the bag itself, set it upright back near the pole that held their hanging clothing, then sat next to her.

  “You done with that—” He stopped abruptly. His mouth opened and closed. “You switched from the black thread to some that matched the silk.” He stared at the ivory silk sheath, touched the tassels with a finger. They were sleek and silky as if new.

  Glancing at the tube, she made a soundless, disbelieving noise. The sheath looked whole. Perfect. As if it had never been torn at all. She touched it with a finger, then pulled it close to knot and snip the white—white, not ivory—thread. The minute she did so, the small ends vanished. Now she had to clear her throat, too. “It’s been a while since I mended anything. I pricked myself on the needle. I perspired a little bit, too. There . . . aren’t any blood spots or stains on the cloth.” In fact, every minute she looked at the ivory tube it looked nicer.

  Zach leaned over and picked up the knife again, hissed through his teeth, and handed her the weapon.

  He muttered something under his breath.

  “What?” Clare asked.

  He switched his intensity to her, flicked the cloth sheath with his finger, pointed to the knife. “Damn vampiric blade.”

  She jerked a little at the phrase. Picking it up, she stared at it, settled it back in the sheath and tied the tassels in a simple knot, got up and put it on the vanity.

  “Looks like the sheath is blood-sucking, too,” he grumbled. “You said that when the Other reamed you out, he-it-whatever called the knife a tool.”

  “And so it is.”

  Zach grunted, then said, “A weapon is a tool all right, but this is something more.”

  She returned to the bed and scooted back against the pillows. “Everything in my life is more, now.” Her smile felt wobbly. “I have a fortune. I have a ‘gift’ of communicating with ghosts so they can pass on. I have a supernatural tutor who despises me. I don’t have a real dog, I have a ghost—” she choked.

  He rose and drew her up and into his arms, and they stood together. After a few seconds, he began to rock with her, and she forced stupid tears of self-pity back. Whispering, she said, “And I have a magnificent, larger-than-life lover, a man I wouldn’t have dared to love in my previous life.”

  “Don’t make me a hero,” he said roughly.

  “I’m not. You are, Zach, you simply are.” To her horror, little whimpering sobs erupted from her. “G-g-good grief.”

  “You’ve been through a lot.” He sat her on the bed.

  Clare shrugged. “I’m just not prepared for this.” She paused, couldn’t help herself. “It would have been so much better if I’d had a few months of . . . this new vocation . . . under my belt. Or an easier monster to work with. Then I’d’ve known the requirements, how to discover a core identity. You did great, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Let’s forget about the wraith now, and let your lover make love with you.” He took off her vest, pulled her sweater and tank over her head, unclasped her bra, and his hands went to her breasts, caressing them.

  With gratitude, she let her mind fuzz as her body clamored for release, and she undressed him. She participated wholeheartedly in the active and demanding sex, pleased when she made him groan, when they joined, when they reached rapture together.

  They lay and she could see the window. The shades behind the thin lace curtains hung flat, relieving her. All too easily she could imagine an evil face pressed up against the window.

  She feared seeing a face instead of a whirlwind of snow. Not that the opaque white roller shades had kept the thing out. Her imagination had come back online. Pity.

  Zach stroked her side, draped his arm around her, his hand resting near her stomach.

  Stress had tightened her muscles again, and tight muscles in bed were only good when you were making love. She remembered the relaxation exercise of her new yoga class, and began releasing every muscle . . .

  “Would help if the Other wasn’t such a jerk,” Zach mumbled. “Guess it goes to show that spiritual-type beings aren’t that much more evolved than we are.”

  “He said”—and Clare had always figured the Other for more male than female—“that he could only help me once a year.” That just felt totally wrong. She’d had pretty much nonstop cases for the last month. In a year . . . But fear gnawed her that she wouldn’t survive the week. Her body began to tremble.

  Zach tightened his arm around her, grunted sleepily, and she kept quiet. The gush of feeling she’d had for him earlier had been absolutely sincere, but they’d had enough ups and downs for her to know he had faults just like her. Manlike—well, maybe humanlike—he didn’t care for any over-the-top emotions, complimentary or the opposite.

  Relax . . . every . . . muscle . . . Nothing stalking her, them, outside on the long balcony. No threat to their neighbors, in the next room, or the one beyond either.

  At Wagon Wheel Gap the Other had sent the ghost on its way, and it hadn’t fully manifested later. Zach had nearly sussed its name out of it. What a boon that would have been!

  He was right. They were holding their own, and that was necessary until they had the ghost’s core identity. Knew its name.

  Though Clare had no doubt that the ghost would extract vengeance for this last fight. No, when doing the relaxing every muscle thing, you also banished negative thoughts. She began deep breathing, inhaled and smelled Zach and the tang of him, the hint of sage that she associated with him. His warmth comforted her back. His sheer presence comforted her heart, spirit, soul . . . whatever parts she had.

  Flashes of the fights with the wraith highlighted her memory: the pain of tooth and razor-whip slices, the multimouths of half-consumed ghosts shrieking in fear and demanding she help end their torment, the quick sight of Enzo in a thinning bubble-capsule looking at her with doomed eyes . . . Her own eyes filled and she let the tears trickle down. She plucked a wadded tissue from under her pillow and wept into it.

  Why hadn’t she watched him better? Kept him closer? Sent him home to Denver so he wasn’t at risk?

  Now she’d lost the being who’d been with her from the very beginning and it tore her up.

  Too much sadness, too many tears. She let her exhausted mind and emotions quiet, brea
thed deeply and regularly, relaxed muscle by muscle, and when, again, torturing thoughts and images paraded in front of her mind’s eye, she let them pass and refused to dwell on them. Finally, even the indirect light of the moon faded as it rose too high to beam against the shade and sleep descended like a soft blanket.

  It had taken Clare too long to fall asleep. Though Zach kept his breathing steady and his body loose around Clare—except for his dick, but her body was accustomed to that portion of him being stiff around her—fury raged in him, flooding his mind with a red haze. He was a much better actor than Clare, and he could lie with his body.

  Circumstances were changing Clare and it riled him.

  * * *

  They woke later in the morning, spooned together and at the same time, and Zach was glad of it. Clare had needed the sleep, and he sensed that no nightmares had plagued her. Good.

  She stiffened in his arms, made a small, grief-stricken sound.

  He rubbed her back. “You remembered that we’ve lost Enzo—temporarily.” He said it with all the calm confidence he had. Whether she knew it or not, Clare responded to that tone from him. It soothed her and supported her, and he was going to use every tool at his command to get them through this.

  Sliding his hands down, he moved one to her breast and began to stroke her nipple; one he slipped between her legs and found her damp. She caught her breath and he gave her sweet, sweet attention, enjoying the hardening of his morning arousal.

  Sighs and cries, soft moans and whimpers, and a soft rise to release and an even softer fall, together, holding each other, eased them into the morning. Clare rolled out of bed first, took the hotel robe and the key to the bathroom, and left.

  Zach stretched out on the double bed and stacked his hands behind his head. It was Wednesday. They needed to keep moving on this case, and fast. Wrap it up Saturday morning at the latest, though from the fliers he’d seen, the first event of Cruisin’ the Canyon took place Friday afternoon. Having it done by Friday would be better.

  And he didn’t have enough real facts to know that they could do that. They had the knife, the bloody, bloodthirsty knife. The weapon was ready. The person holding that weapon, Clare, might or might not be. Enzo being taken by the specter had been a bad mistake on its part. That made her even more determined. Of course she’d fight for Caden, but she’d only met him once. Enzo had been with her since her psychic gift had been dumped on her, had helped her through the first bad times. Clare would never forget that, and she’d fight all the harder because of it.

  The piece of the puzzle that would be the difficult one was finding the dead sucker’s name . . . Zach grunted. Sucker might be a word to keep in mind. Soapy Smith had been a con man, and Robert Ford had run a gang, too. They’d clashed, and later Ford had died. Plenty of leeway for betrayal in those circumstances.

  Clare came back in and Zach took the other robe. “String of betrayals,” he said, without thinking about it. He could talk to her about cases, bounce ideas off her. A woman he had sex with . . . cared for . . . unique in his relationship history.

  Nodding, Clare said, “Robert Ford betrayed Jesse James and killed him. The Ford brothers themselves were betrayed in that they didn’t get the bounty amount for killing James that was promised. Later, Ford probably felt betrayed when his older brother committed suicide. Most people think that Soapy Smith set Ford up to be killed.”

  “I’d considered that. I need to get up to speed on the legends.”

  Clare glanced out the window. “It looks like another mixed weather day.” She gave him an unshadowed smile. “Always easier for me to read and do research on cloudy days. We have a meeting with one of the volunteers for the historical society at the archives this afternoon.”

  “I remember.”

  Once more when he returned, he found Clare dressed and sitting on the bed, her great-aunt Sandra’s journal open. He wished Clare would listen to her gut more.

  “Reading the story of how your great-aunt Sandra defeated her evil ghost again?”

  Her mouth set stubbornly. “Sometimes you see new things.”

  “I don’t figure one page can reveal new insights.”

  “You’re being difficult.”

  “Maybe.” He took off the robe, wanted to throw it on the floor, or the bed, but hung it on the stand instead. “I don’t want you comparing yourself to your great-aunt Sandra and finding yourself lacking.”

  “I’m not.”

  He grunted and began dressing.

  “Not much.”

  “And you’re not regretting avoiding her, and not learning from her?”

  “Not much.”

  “Really?” His sarcasm was heavy.

  “Not. Much. I’m trying to ingrain the information into my head so all the concepts feel familiar when I think of them, not something I will doubt in the heat of the moment.”

  “Okay.”

  Clare closed the book and tapped it with her forefinger. “Great-Aunt Sandra’s ghost had consumed two others.”

  Keeping his voice soft, Zach slid into the next question. “You know more about the monster ghost every time you check on it, don’t you? You must have gotten an idea of how many ghosts it’s taken over. Think, Clare, how many?”

  A line twisted between her brows. She tipped her head as if listening. Her lips moved as if counting.

  “Twenty.”

  Zach snapped his mouth shut so he couldn’t shout the word, sucked in a breath and said, “Twenty.”

  “Yes, I think. She’s consumed twenty.”

  “Clare!”

  She jerked a little, looked at him. “Zach?”

  “You said ‘she.’ She consumed twenty other ghosts.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  CLARE’S EYES WENT large. “I did.”

  “The core identity of this ghost is female.”

  “Yes,” Clare whispered. “Oh my God. Thank heavens. The ghost, she is female. We have something solid to go on!”

  She appeared stunned. He finished dressing and came over to sit next to her and take her hand.

  Relief washed through him, too. They had the gender of the ghost. So much easier to find a person, a historical person, if they had one good fact. And of the ten thousand people in Creede in the 1890s, a minority would be women. The case was looking up. Maybe they’d be able to solve it sooner than he’d thought.

  They sat quietly for a good minute, then her breath whistled in, and her eyes met his and their gazes locked. “When we’re talking about women in mining camps, it’s unlikely that we’re talking about wives.”

  “Whores.”

  “I don’t like that word.”

  “Prostitutes.”

  Her lips pursed. “I don’t like that one, either.”

  “Geez, what would you call them?”

  Her chin lifted. “A phrase of the times, soiled doves.”

  “Hell.”

  “And only some men, some miners were recorded in history.”

  “That’s right.” Zach frowned. “Though the miners and business proprietors could have records—claims for the miners, at least.”

  “But the soiled doves sometimes used fake names, or were given nicknames. We might not even be able to discover her real name, not to mention just trying to track her down.” A note of despair entered Clare’s voice, damn it to hell. Yeah, damn the whore-ghost to hell.

  Zach picked her up and moved her to his lap, said the first thing that came to his mind. “We have more information, just now. So let’s leave it at that. Let it simmer in our subconscious.”

  He kissed her thoroughly, smiled at her. “Live in the moment.”

  She appeared a little dazed and he congratulated himself at how well he distracted her, and ignored his hardening dick.

  “Cherish
the moment,” she said, and stroked his face.

  “That’s right. I’m hungry; let’s eat.”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  The waitress showed up at their table by the window holding a pad and pencil and with a wide smile that wrinkled her face. She reeled off the specials.

  “I’ll have the oatmeal with nuts and dried fruits,” Zach said. Sounded good and stick-to-his-ribs to him.

  That wrenched Clare’s attention from the passersby to him. “Seriously?” She sounded appalled. Glancing up at the waitress, she said, “No offense.” Clare gave a tiny cough. “I just haven’t met many adult . . . ,” she stopped when Zach laughed. “All right, I’m funny.” She glanced up at the waitress. “No offense to the chef.”

  “A lady like you who enjoys croissants might not understand the appeal of oatmeal,” the waitress said comfortably. “I noticed you particularly liked the croissant yesterday.”

  She’d noticed that Clare had had designs on Zach’s, but he hadn’t let her have it.

  “It takes a properly trained chef to make excellent croissants,” Clare said stiffly.

  Clare consumed her two croissants relatively quickly, played with her omelette more than ate it. She shifted in her seat, time and again, and Zach recollected their conversation about the seven deadly sins. Yes, she usually paid attention to her food. Not this morning. He finished his excellent oatmeal that Clare had been giving dirty looks. He could have finished her omelet, too, but the oatmeal was hearty—and tasty—enough.

  She’d started pleating her napkin, so he stood, took out his wallet.

  “I’ll take care of the tip,” Clare said. She laid cash on the table so fast he knew she’d had it ready.

  “Thanks, Clare.” He saw it was the exact amount he’d given the waitress yesterday. Clare watched her pennies.

  Or, easier to say that she was a generous-spirited woman in other ways than giving money. She’d be one of those who’d spend a year teaching you to fish instead of giving you a fish. A bad analogy; he’d bet his whole disability pension the woman didn’t fish.