Page 117 of Dead Vengeance

I roll my eyes and try to focus on the page. “You need to research this missing mirror? What for? This says it’s been gone for three years, presumed stolen.” I lower the paper as the thought occurs to me. “One of your ghosts didn’t steal it, did they?”

“They did not!” he breathes out, pretending to be offended. “Though I wish they would. Or could. That mirror is an incredibly powerful object. I’ve got some suspicions about…” He drifts off there, pressing his lips, a frown making me want to kiss his forehead to get it away.

But we have business to do. “What suspicions? About who’s taken it?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’ve got no clue about that. But I do have thoughts on what it might be doing. To us. To England. To the ghost situation here.”

“To England? I thought this ghost situation was just at your house?”

He sidles around the desk, coming next to me, leaning back all sexy and shit, his robe hanging open to his midline. I could get so used to this. “Remember I told you there’s been more ghost activity recently? And our friend upstairs is connected?”

Our friend upstairs. As if I could forget. I could have skipped the reminder, though, just now. I give him a nod to show I’m following, more or less.

“Well, that’s the situation at my house since it arrived. But there’s a bigger picture, with more happening elsewhere. Gerald didn’t mention that to you?”

“No. Why would he? How would he know?”

“Seems fairly relevant for a Spirit Extraction Specialist. But I guess preparing his employees to deal with said spirits isn’t exactly Gerald’s strong suit.” He wrinkles his disgruntled lips, but he talks on calmly, as though he feels like he’s doing Gerald’s job for him, which we both know he totally is. “For the last few years now, three years, in fact, if I had to pinpoint it, I’ve been hearing more and more reports of hauntings, of ghost activity, where there never used to be any. The rare times I get away from here, usually for work, I’ve barely been able to stay in some towns because there are so many spirits. But it’s not the case for every town, so… I began tracking where they are.”

He slips away with that same fresh enthusiasm he had when he was telling me about his business. An infectious excitement that throws energy into his step, taking him swiftly to the wall where I hadn’t actually noticed a map, what with all the other weird things in this room. It’s mostly a very normal-looking map. Except for all the red pushpins in it. And except for all the red lines, drawn in pen, criss-crossing it.

In fact, now I think about it, maybe it’s not normal at all.

I rush around to him as he runs a finger down one of those lines. “Do you know what these are?”

“Flight paths?” I throw out, though I’m actually pretty sure I’m way off.

His lower lip juts out in a ‘not bad’ sort of expression. “You know, in a manner of speaking, they are. Only they’re flight paths for ghosts.”

I blink at him. Hard. “Sorry, what?”

He’s enjoying this, I think, being my teacher of all things ghostly and supernatural. I don’t think either of us could have imagined how fun this would actually become, him all brilliant and clever, me his ever-willing student, assistant, employee, fuckboy—whatever the hell he wants me to be.

All too professionally, he carries on, “They’re called ley lines. They criss-cross the country, connecting ancient spiritual monuments all throughout Britain. The science is still a bit iffy, in that no one understands why these structures of various ages and religions should be capable of imbuing the spaces between them, or the spaces themselves, with any special energy. However, these…” He points to the red pushpins, some singular, some in little groups. “They represent spirit activity. And what do you notice?”

“Well… they’re all on or near ley lines?”

“Correct.”

“And… there are more of them where the lines intersect?”

“Exactly correct.”

I preen far too readily beneath his approval, and trying for a bit more of it, I attempt to sound astute when I suggest, “So, spirits are moving along the ley lines, they’re congregating in areas where ley lines join, and… and somehow, you think, this is all connected to that mirror?”

“Smart and hot,” he observes, and I totally don’t melt. I’m fine. Not at all begging him with my eyes to bend me over his desk.

He does not bend me over his desk. Sadly.

He steps away, picks up the newspaper, and flashes the image of the missing mirror at me again.

It’s so familiar. I know I’ve seen it somewhere before, but I can’t think of where.

“This mirror belonged to…” He pauses. “Are you familiar with Doctor John Dee?”

“The occultist, mathematician, astrologer, astronomer, spiritualist, scientist, and chief advisor to Queen Elizabeth the First?”

Archer’s eyebrows rise. “Quite familiar, then?”