Page 11 of Dead Vengeance

He couldn’t really care what my name is. What does it matter what my name is?

What is my name?

Do I have a name?

His hand closes around mine, perfectly manicured nails, warm skin, gold jewellery flashing on his ring and pinkie fingers.

Ring finger.

Fuck, I hope he’s not married.

Did I just think that?

What does it matter if he’s married?

It doesn’t matter at all if Archer Gravely is married!

“And you?” he asks again, his voice dropping lower, his head with it, though he’s still way taller than me.

“Liam,” I reply softly.

“Liam,” he repeats. Not like a question. Not as though he’s confirming. He just says it, and it sounds good on his lips.

His lips look posh. Posh and plump and polished. Too posh for me.

There’s a sort of avalanche of conflicting, confusing emotions that run through me all at once. It’s not just that he’s good looking—like ‘model’ good looking, like I shouldn’t actually come across a man who looks like this in ordinary life. And it’s not just that he smells delicious, as if he’s just stepped out of a spa day having had expensive oils massaged into his skin for a solid eight hours.

There’s something else about him—about his presence. There’s a warmth, but not like when your grandma makes you tea. It’s enveloping, deeply comforting. And it’s only as his fingertips slide from mine that I realise the oppression that hit me when I set foot on this road… it’s lifted. Since he stepped out that door, there’s a freshness back in the air, there’s a… I don’t know that ‘safety’ is the word. But I don’t know what else to call it. The unease, the dread that I felt walking down the road to get here, has disappeared. And—

“Kraaaa,” comes a screech, accompanied by a flap of wings and a black blob resolving itself into a bizarrely massive raven perching on a branch high above us.

Not the same raven? No, it couldn’t be. But…

“The birds,” I say out loud, completely by accident, as my thoughts try to make sense of themselves.

Both men look at me.

“Weren’t singing,” I add, as if that will make it make sense.

Because they weren’t. The road was eerily quiet all the way here, and since that man walked out that door, it’s as if someone hit play on nature. Birds, insects, all the sounds of the village on the way out here, alive again. And, of course, that big black bird up in that big tree, watching us.

But I can’t expect them to understand this. Raul certainly doesn’t. I can tell by the way he’s frowning at me, like I shouldn’t say anything at all—as if my very existence here is making him seem less professional.

“He’s new,” he informs Gravely, confirming my worries. “First day jitters.”

Gravely glances at me again, and this time for several long seconds, then he suddenly snaps, “I’m sorry?” directed harshly at Raul. “First day? I asked for experienced ghostbus—”

“‘Spirit Extraction Specialists,’” Raul sharply corrects him, for whatever reason. “And you won’t find anyone more experienced than me. Not even Brad bloody Harrington. Especially not Brad bloody Harrington. This one’s a slight liability, I admit—”

“I’m not a liability!” I break in, wondering slightly who Brad bloody Harrington is and swiftly concluding he’d have to be a much better partner than this guy.

Raul, of course, ignores me. “While I, on the other hand, am one of the most highly esteemed members of the ExorSquad. You name it, I’ve seen it, I’ve killed it. Now, what kind of spirits are we dealing with? Your perp sheet wasn’t very clear.”

“My perp…” Archer breaks a slight grin. Some kind of sly, almost-mocking type of grin. “You call it a perp sheet?”

“What are ghosts if not supernatural perpetrators?” Raul shrugs. “They’re entering your space unlawfully, probably causing some property damage. The law doesn’t stop applying to someone just because they’re dead.”

“I’m pretty sure it does,” Archer argues, archly.