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“Yeah,” I said. “But we still have to bust it.”
• • •
Delia diagnosed Luc with two broken ribs and a concussion, and settled him in his room.
The investigators walked in a silent, single-file line down the sidewalk and toward the street, the exuberance they’d carried into the House now gone.
Matt, predictably now, studied his machine. Roz and Robin glanced back over their shoulders, aimed angry looks at us on the steps. We’d broken up their party, even if to save their lives, and they were pissed.
“In their position,” I said, “I’d probably be angry, too. I don’t know how often they’re able to get up close and personal with actual ghosts. This probably would have been a coup for them.”
“I understand their frustration,” Ethan said. “But they’ve been compensated for their time.” He glanced at me. “They’re humans. After seeing Margot hurt, I shouldn’t have let them into the House. I certainly couldn’t allow them to stay after Luc went down.” He frowned, seemed to struggle with the memory of Luc’s attack.
“It’s easy to say that in hindsight,” I said, “what we should have done. But their job is to evaluate, and since Annabelle can’t do it, we weren’t left with many options. We hired the experts.” And we’d still need to deal with ghostly removal, one way or the other. “Sorry about the wine,” I offered.
“It’s insured,” Ethan said. “So that’s something. Although the ’49 Sauterne will be difficult to replace.”
“1949?” I asked hopefully.
“Add a century to that,” Ethan said.
I winced. “I owe you,” I said.
Thankfully, I’d have an eternity to pay him back.
5
Mallory, Catcher, and I went back to Ethan’s office, taking seats while Ethan played host, handing out bottles of water and blood from his built-in refrigerator.
“The floor is open,” he said, walking back to the sitting area. He stood in front of us with crossed arms and a dour expression. This particular Master and captain of his ship did not like being out of control.
“Let’s start with the ghost,” I said. “He didn’t look anything like the photo of Mickey Riley we saw earlier.”
“No,” Catcher agreed. “If the FBI’s mug shot is accurate, and I tend to believe they’d get something like that right, that wasn’t him. And not just the wrong man—the wrong clothing, wrong style, wrong era. That wasn’t Mickey Riley.”
“But that was definitely Mickey Riley’s grave,” I said. “We’ve seen the burial records.”
“I am officially confused,” Mallory said.
; I ignored the tingling pain and kicked out with my free foot, nailing him in the knee and sending a shock of cold up my other leg. He roared another round of cursing, and this time I caught snippets of his insults, which were as old-fashioned as his clothes. This was a man from another era, and time had done nothing to abate his fury.
Maybe I could use that. “You’re a buffoon in an awkward suit! We don’t need your jiggery-pokery here!”
The ghost’s image jerked, as did his expression. And that hiccup was enough to allow me to escape his grip. I kicked free, climbed to my heavy and numb feet, and scrambled away.
“That your attempt at period-appropriate insults?” Catcher asked when I reached him.
“Yep. Did I pull it off?”
“You did not,” Catcher said good-naturedly, the buzz around him increasing as he gathered magic for another throw. “So let’s meet magic with magic.”
Enraged again, the ghost moved forward. But Catcher bided his time.
