I fought the urge to add another word to the end of that statement.
I lost. “Rewind.”
Damn it. I sucked at fighting. Urges or otherwise.
“It’s a good message,” she said when she came back to me, a microsecond before she started writing again.
“It is. And I have to tell you something else.”
“I’m all ears.”
I released a lengthy sigh and fessed up. “The whole regressive therapy thing? That’s actually secondary to the real reason I’m here.”
“Which is?”
I dropped my feet over Mr. Skarsgård and sat up to look her in the eye. Or the part in her hair. Either way, I wanted to study her reaction since I couldn’t feel her emotions. “Dr. Mayfield?”
“Hmm?” she said without looking up.
I cleared my throat and steeled myself. It had to be done. She needed to know the truth. To accept the things she could not change, so the prayer went, and there was definitely no changing this. Without further ado, I said softly, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you died two years ago.”
She kept writing. “Mm-hmm. And you can see me because…?”
“I’m the—”
“—grim reaper. Right. Oh, and a god, no less.”
Wow. I sat back. She took that really well. Either that or she didn’t believe me.
Nah.
I bit my lip while she continued to take notes, but my attention span was only so long. “So, yeah, I’ve been hired, in a manner of speaking, by the new leaser of this office. He’s been experiencing strange events. Just the usual stuff. Cold spots. Magazines moving from one corner on a table to another. Pictures falling off the walls.”
“I see. And he hired you because he thinks the place is haunted.”
“Actually, no. He thinks the landlord wants him to break the lease to use the office for his new juicing business, which is dumb because this would be a horrible location for a juice bar. But he thinks the landlord is trying to scare him off. To frighten him away. To send him fleeing in terror. In a word, he thinks he’s being punked.”
“But you disagree?”
“I do.”
“You think it’s really haunted?”
“Yes, I do. And I have to admit, at first, I thought it was you.”
“Naturally.”
“’Cause you’re dead and all.”
“But you’ve changed your mind?” She had yet to look up at me.
“Yes. I’m pretty sure it’s that kid crawling around your ceiling.”
She stopped writing, but she didn’t want to bite. I could see it in her expression. She looked at me at last. Eyed me a long moment. Probably wondered if she should give in. If she should feed my delusions by looking up. After a lengthy struggle in which I lost focus and contemplated the origins of marshmallows—seriously, what mad genius came up with that delicacy?—she slowly raised her lashes and looked toward the ceiling.
Thankfully, only I could hear her earsplitting screams. She dropped her pen and pad, fell to the ground, and crab-crawled backwards. In heels and a pencil skirt, no less. I was impressed.
In her defense, the kid crawling on her ceiling looked a little like that monochrome girl who crawled out of a television set in a horror movie I once watched about an hour before a DOA popped into my bedroom, wanting me to tell his wife where the insurance papers were, only the kid was a he. A he who looked about ten years old, with long black hair and a shiny black cape. An odd fashion choice for a boy of any age. And from any era.
The good doctor cowered in a corner, the look of horror on her face both sad and strangely amusing.
“Dr. Mayfield,” I said, easing toward her with my palms patting the air. “It’s okay. He’s perfectly harmless.”
Of course, the second I said it, the little shit landed on my shoulders and sank his teeth into my neck.
2
Insanity takes its toll. Please have exact change.
—MEME
I screamed. I had a small vampire on my back, and I screamed. I tried to fling him off, but he’d latched onto me like a leech. Only with teeth. I twisted and turned, knocking over chairs and a side table, as he sank his teeth farther into my neck.
Just as I got a handful of the little shit’s hair, I heard laughter from somewhere in the distance. Somewhere far, far away. Like three feet. So not that far.
I stopped, turned, and gaped at a thirteen-year-old gangbanger who’d died in the ’90s. Angel. He was one of my investigators. Not to mention the bane of my existence. And he was on the floor, laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach.
“What the fuck, Angel?” I asked, turning toward him.
I was now wearing the kid like a backpack, but at least he’d stopped biting me. The glass half-full and all.
The kid jumped down and doubled over laughing, too.
While I graced them with my best look of horror and disgust and betrayal, Angel stood, and the two urchins, who were clearly in cahoots, fist-bumped.
I rubbed my neck where the kid had bitten me. “That was wrong on so many levels.”
Angel snorted, and they doubled over again. I finally got a good look at the kid. He was closer to Angel’s age than I’d originally thought, though a lot shorter. But he really was made up to look like a vampire. His long black hair was real, and his face had been painted white with thick black liner and fake blood dripping from his mouth and down his temple.
When I folded my arms under the girls, a.k.a. Danger and Will Robinson—names I’d given my double Ds because of their propensity for inviting trouble—the kid explained. Or he tried to. His words came out muffled. Partly because of the laughter but mostly because of the fake teeth.
“Ha-oh-ween.” He held up a finger, then spit out the teeth, the kind that glowed in the dark, and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can’t talk with those things in. Halloween. Hit and run.”
A soft Native American accent accompanied his speech. Syllables that flowed without effort from most Americans were stopped short in the smooth, rhythmic staccato distinct to native people, only he was from a newer generation. His accent had been diluted by all the Anglo-Saxons running about, mucking shit up. Still, there was just enough of one that, if I had to guess, I’d say he was from the Zuni reservation northeast of Albuquerque.
And his costume was pretty awesome. Or it was before it dawned on me that the blood dripping down his temple and off his chin wasn’t part of the gig.
“The blood’s real,” I said, astonished and sad.
“Oh yeah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “No big.”
My chest tightened, and I fought my natural instinct to pull him into my arms. It fought back, but I held strong this time. Mostly because being accused of groping a child was a real thing.
“This is Logan,” Angel said, sobering.
Logan held out his hand. I struggled to find a smile as we shook.
“Angel told me all about you. Why you’re so bright and all.” He nodded in approval. “Pretty badass, if you ask me.”
“Then I’m askin’,” I said with a grin.
He ducked his head, hiding a bashful smile, just as I gasped and turned. I’d almost forgotten about Dr. Mayfield. She was still holding down the carpet by an oak filing cabinet, a look of sheer terror lining her face.
And we’d made a mess. A costly one. No telling what that pile of glass that used to be a vase would cost me.
I could chalk this case up to another entry in the red column after I paid for the damages. I totally wasn’t pulling my weight. While my husband was earning enough in interest alone to buy a small country—daily—I was still struggling to earn enough to buy toothpaste and pay my assistant at the same time. One simply had to go. And I could hardly be expected to live without toothpaste.
But I was bound and determined to make my own way in the world. Right after I bought that yacht I’d been eyeing. And those thirty-seven pairs of boots I had in my wish list on Boot Bliss. After that, i
t would be all me, baby.
“Dr. Mayfield,” I said, easing closer to her, “are you okay?”
She was shaking visibly, her eyes wide and wild and more than a little panicked.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I said.
“How…? I don’t … when…?”
“Breathe.” I knelt down and scooted closer. “Just breathe, Doctor.”
She took in a deep breath before she realized the fruitlessness of her endeavor. “It doesn’t do anything.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just, the act tends to calm some people down. I’ve actually seen a departed hyperventilate. No idea how, but it happened. But once he got his breathing under control … well, you get the idea.”
She continued to pant, to force air in and out of her nonexistent lungs. The boys calmed down the minute they realized Dr. Mayfield was having difficulties. They knelt beside us, and Logan took her hand.
“Dr. Mayfield?”
She let her gaze travel slowly toward him.
“It’s just makeup,” I assured her. Just in case. “He’s not really a vampire.”
“Oh. Okay.” She nodded, then recognition dawned on her pretty face. “Wait.” Her gaze traveled the length of the boy. “You’re … you’re Cynthia’s son.”
I had no idea who Cynthia was, but the doctor had apparently nailed it.
The kid nodded and flashed a nuclear smile that shot straight to my heart. “You helped her so much after the accident … after I died, I wanted to help you, too.”
Both hands flew over her mouth as she studied him. “You really are … you really were … you’re here. She said she felt you.”
“Yep. And instead of telling her she was crazy like everyone else, instead of making her feel stupid, you went with it. Even though you didn’t believe her, you helped her work through her grief.”
“It was what she needed at the time.” She took his hand again. “I’m so sorry I doubted her.”
“But she didn’t know that. That’s all that matters.”
“Oh, my God,” she said, pulling him into her arms. Her shoulders shook with her newfound knowledge. Her new circumstance.
Angel and I stood to give them a moment. It didn’t take him long, however. It never took him long.
“So, we gonna make out now? All the cool kids are doing it.” He gestured toward the pair on the floor.
“You’ve been hanging out with me way too long.” I took a good, long look at him. He still wore the clothes he’d died in, as did almost all departed. And those that didn’t flummoxed me. He wore a dirty A-line T-shirt, the blood from a gunshot wound still on his chest. His jeans rode too low on his hips and the bandanna he wore rode too low on his brow, but he was an absolutely gorgeous kid. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
He was supposed to be tailing my curmudgeonly uncle. What good did it do me to have minions if they didn’t … min?
“Swopes is on it. I couldn’t miss this.”
“Of course not. How are you?”
His lashes narrowed in suspicion. “Good. I’d be better if we made out.”
“How’s your mom?”
He lifted a shoulder. “She’s good. She’s dating a really nice guy. It’s weird.”
I laughed. “She deserves a nice guy.”
“She always did.”
I raised a hand to his jawline. Stroked my fingers over the dark peach fuzz there. He had barely begun life when he passed. His death was so senseless. So utterly needless.
He took my tenderness as a cue. Stepped closer. Buried his face in the crook of my neck. Pressed in to me, then let one hand drift around my waist. After a minute, it drifted some more. Lower and lower until it rested on my left ass cheek.
I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh. The kid would try anything, but he was thirteen. It was in his adolescent DNA. And hugging him pretty much made my day. I felt like an older sister even though, if one counted the fact that he’d died at thirteen in ’95, he was older than I was.
Before he could protest—or molest me further—I wrapped my arms around him and hugged. Hard.
This was the point where I usually threatened him. Pushed him back. Slapped his hands away. My response surprised him, which was the reason I did it all stealthlike. He didn’t have time to react. I could get in a good hug before kicking him to the curb.
I placed a brisk kiss on his cheek, then stepped out of his reach.
“I win.” I smirked, but he only stared at me.
After a few seconds, he asked, “Not that I didn’t enjoy that, but are you okay?”
“I’m grand, beautiful boy.”
He grimaced. He hated it when I called him that. Sucked to be him.
“And you didn’t win,” he said. “I got to cop a feel. Doesn’t get any better than that.”
“Damned sure does, Skippy.” I reached up and fondled his peach fuzz again. “You sure you hit puberty?”
He caught hold of my hand and rubbed the backs of my fingers over his mouth, the move entirely too sensual considering the age difference.
“I could prove it to you,” he said, a confident challenge in his eyes. The little shit.
With the help of Logan the Vampire, Dr. Mayfield got to her feet.
I rushed forward to help steady her. “How are you, Doctor?”
She wobbled as we helped her to a chair.
“You know, you can cross through me if you’d like. I’m sure you have family—”
“No,” she said quickly, then swallowed and started over. “Sorry, no, thank you. I’d like to check on my sister. Can I do that?”
“You sure can. I bet Logan would help you.”
He nodded, his enthusiasm evident.
“You don’t have to,” I said to him. “You can cross as well.”
“I’m okay here for now, but thanks. I can show her the ropes. My dad … he still goes into my room every night and cries. Maybe you could get a message to him?”
“Absolutely.” I put an arm on his shoulder. “But I think he’ll still cry.”
“I know. But he’ll feel better knowing that I’m there with him.”
“Yes, he will. And if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“You’re hard to miss,” he said with a soft chuckle.
And so I was. As I turned to leave, the current occupant, a.k.a. my client, stood at the door, coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other. He took in the state of his office. His well-manicured jaw hung loose on its hinges, his mouth open in what I could only assume was shock. Or he’d been infected by the Thing. Pretty much all versions of that movie were creepy.
Logan spoke first. “Um, we should probably go. Now.”
“Later, gorgeous,” Angel said. The deserter.
The coffee in my client’s hand fell and spilled onto the cream-colored carpet. I took another look at our surroundings. It wasn’t that bad, for heaven’s sake.
I pointed. “That’s not on me. I’m not paying to have that cleaned.”
“What the hell?” he said.
So, not infected by the Thing.
“Oh, this? Yeah, your landlord isn’t trying to get you to break your lease.” I bent to grab my jacket and bag. “The place really was haunted, so to speak.” I waltzed past him before he became indignant. “It no longer is.” I poked my head back in and added, “And you’ll get my bill.”
* * *
I hit the head before starting back to my place of employment. Could I call it a place of employment if I owned it? I was so bad with business etiquette. Good thing I was taking a class.
My phone rang as I sat on the loo.
A female voice filtered through the airways and into my ear. It was like magic. Or science. Mostly science. “Charley, what have you done now?”
God only knew. It was a friend of mine who took the concept of habit to a whole new—or really old—level. As in, she wore one. And they were not the least bit flattering.
Sister Mary Elizabeth was also
clairvoyant, though she hated using that word. But what else was I supposed to call someone who could eavesdrop on the conversations of angels?
“Hey, sis. How’s it hanging?”
“Heaven is in an uproar, that’s how.”
“Isn’t it usually?”
“No, Charley, it’s not. I check out for a few days, and when I check back in, all hell has broken loose. And guess what the topic of conversation is?”
I tried to tidy up while holding the phone to my ear. The toilet paper was not cooperating. “Angels are such gossips. Don’t they have anything better to do?”
“Did you actually threaten our Lord and Savior?”
I snorted. “No. I threatened our Lord and Savior’s Father. You know, the Big Guy.”
“You … you…”
“Use your words,” I said, finally managing to make myself presentable. I stepped out of the stall and around a departed homeless woman who was busy trying to get a paper towel out of the dispenser. Her hand kept slipping through. That had to be frustrating.
“Charley, you can’t just threaten the Heavenly Father.”
“Can, too.” Yes. I was seven.
“Charley,” she said, appalled.
When she didn’t follow up, I said, “I know. I get it. But I was just really mad at the time.”
“At the Almighty?”
“At the almighty jerk who stole my memories and tried to put my husband in a hell dimension for all eternity.”
I was pretty sure she didn’t hear a thing I’d said. The moment the word jerk left my mouth, she gasped. Loud and long. For, like, sixty seconds. Girl had a set of lungs.
“I’m sorry.” I looked up and said it again. “I’m sorry. I get it. Threatening the Big Kahuna is a bad idea, but He started it.”
“This isn’t the third grade, Charley. And even if it were, you don’t pick a fight with the principal.”
“No, but I did pick a fight with my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Hickman. That woman was bat shit.”
We hung up a couple of minutes later, once I convinced her that even if I did threaten Him, what could I do? For reals?
After drying my own hands, I took a paper towel and handed it to the homeless woman. It slipped through her fingers to the floor, but it seemed to satisfy her nonetheless.