Page 10 of Dead Vengeance

“Gerald didn’t say to be here at twenty to,” I throw back, already annoyed, already wondering why I’ve had to be paired with such a massive dick. Because this is clearly the guy I’m supposed to work with, learn on the job with. He’s got a uniform, same little ghost logo as mine has, but I guess he got in early enough to get the winter uniform. His long-sleeved coveralls, grey, are more professional-looking than mine. They fit him too. He has boots, which is probably smarter than my Converse, but also I can’t afford boots yet, so I’m not going to think about that for now.

What I am going to do is shut my mouth and make the most of this opportunity. So before he can snipe back at me, I thrust out my hand and say, “I’m Liam. Good to meet you.”

He looks down at my hand a moment, then cocks his head in a way that actually makes me want to slap him.

“I’m not going to shake your hand,” he tells me.

I drop that hand and think really hard about the chances of a callback from one of the many other jobs I’ve applied for.

He pulls my gaze back up when he asks, “Do you want to know why?”

Not really. But, “Why?” I ask.

Like he’s the lead in an action movie, he pulls some plastic-looking gun out of his car window and holds it up in a pose that might be cool if anyone else did it. “Because you’re going to die today.”

You utter wanker.

This is already worse than the five hours of telemarketing I did on commission before I was let go for not being ‘a closer.’

Despite the fact my narrowed eyes are almost definitely telling him exactly what I think of him, he speaks on. “Someone always dies, Liam. And it’s not gonna be me.”

I lean into the ridiculousness of the comment. “Oh yeah? What do you think will get me?” With a nod at the hedge, “A butterfly?” A chin-raise towards the garden bed, “Pollen?” Failing to fight back a laugh, “Or do you think a zombie bunny is going to hop out of one of these fields and bite me and give me zombie rabies?”

He spits on the ground, performative, like he’s a badass hero, as though I can’t see his five-pound barbershop cut. “You have no idea what we’re going to find behind those doors, do you?”

It’s only then I take a moment to look at the house. Well, not that you’d call it a ‘house.’

The door in front of us, across the small garden, is painted a bright, glossy blue, and almost glitters in the light. The golden door handle definitely does. Either side of it are enormous stone pots, flowers cascading down the edges. The building rises up another level above that, one cute and ancient-looking window peering down on us, all of it beneath a neatly thatched roof.

Just that part would be excessively impressive, more than I could ever imagine owning, but from there the building extends deep into the perfectly kept and trimmed garden, the expanse of gorgeous limestone only broken by repeating windows, tall and austere, floor to ceiling, each looking onto a fairyland of flowers.

“You’re right,” I say, turning my attention back to the idiot in front of me. “An antique chandelier might fall on my head at any moment. I’ll have to be careful.”

He opens his mouth, but the click of a lock behind him shuts it. We hear the lock slide, the handle turns…

Then he steps into the light.

This man isn’t old and decrepit. This man doesn’t shake a walking stick at me and start yelling about ghosts. This man stands tall, dark, and gorgeous, stepping out into the light with his head raised high, like he owns half the world and is expecting the other half to be placed into the palm of his hand any minute now.

He’s wearing a grey suit that fits so perfectly it looks like he was sewn into it. The purple of his shirt is deep and rich and more vibrant than any flower in this garden. His hair’s trimmed short but stylish, black, and his skin, a deep umber, is flawless. Flawless like the bright grin he flashes us now, skipping down the stairs with a luminous energy even as he checks a gold watch that glints brightly in the sunshine.

“Right on time,” he announces, his voice deep and a little husky.

This can’t be him. This beautiful young man who looks like he could buy and sell me over lunch cannot be—

“Archer Gravely,” he says, holding out a hand.

My colleague takes it immediately, unlike mine. “Raul Vasquez,” he says. “ExorSquad.”

“And you?”

Archer Gravely’s hand is in front of me. His eyes are on mine, sparkling amber in the morning light.

Fuck, he’s handsome.

Fuck, he’s so handsome.

I lift my hand, but no sound makes it to my throat.