Page 2 of Hot Ghost Summer

Setting my now-empty teacup in a space on the shelf above my head, I open the rickety folding chair, cross my ankle over my knee, and balance the Apparition Displacement Apparatus I’m building in my spare time on my lap. Hopefully, it’ll spare a future employee from sharing Gary’s fate.

The loud and confident rap of knuckles upon my office door causes a frown to work its way across my brow, and I push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose with a finger. That’s not Ted’s knock. It’s too confident. Too brash. Gerald.

Interfacing with him is something I prefer to keep to a minimum. A non-existent minimum.

When the knock comes again, I begrudgingly fold away the chair, crack open the door, and wedge my foot behind it.

“Hollis, good morning.” Gerald Pickett’s round face, fronted by the ruddy cheeks of someone who likes a tipple or two, fills the entirety of my limited view. “Ted informs me you’re incredibly busy today, and I know your time is valuable, but I come bearing gifts.”

He doesn’t. He’s here because I shut Ted out. And I shut Ted out because whatever Gerald wants does not need to concern me.

His puffy and tobacco-stained fingers emerge in a firm grip of the door casing beside my head. Clearing his throat, Gerald presses. “I’ve had a request from a wealthy client, someone in need of great professionalism and discretion.”

Narrowing my eyes, I observe the fine layer of sweat that shines on his wide forehead. Anyone from old money would take one look at Mr Pickett and raise their nose in derision at what is, quite obviously, a snake oil salesman. Then again, Gerald knows just enough about the paranormal to be credible… and dangerous. If I weren’t directly benefitting from that, it’d be a primary concern.

“You are, of course, more aware than most of the outrageous persecution that the various branches of so-called authority subject our kind to.” Gerald snorts in disgust, and I arch an eyebrow.

I’m very aware of the paranoia that plagues him, but maybe if he hadn’t acquired whatever that artefact is he keeps hidden away, he wouldn’t face persecution by the authorities at all.

“I’d take this case myself, it’s just that I know they’re watching me. And that makes offering a discreet service more difficult, wouldn’t you agree?” His milky blue eyes stare, unblinking.

I hum, and Gerald smiles. It’s a seedy smile, as if he thinks he has me right where he wants me. But I’d be lying if I said that my curiosity wasn’t a little piqued. Which high-profile client approached him… and how do I fit into it?

“But you, Hollis, you’re refined and poised. Cool under pressure. I know that if I send you somewhere, the job’ll be done—and done right. And this does need to be done right.”

Gerald leans closer, the smell of cigarette smoke and muscle rub seeping unobstructed through the small gap in the door. With a lowered voice, he gruffly whispers, “The client is Clawson and Stoker, one of the biggest strategic land developers in the United Kingdom. And they’ve offered a princely sum for a rapid conclusion to their problem.”

I give a curt nod. So, not old money, but money enough to throw some ExorSquad’s way and demand discretion.

“So, we’re not t’ say their name out loud, then?” asks a disembodied voice, its accent rich with the Northern history of this tiny island. “Like that thing from school where you can’t say ‘Bloody Mary’ while looking in t’ mirror if you don’t want your back scratched up?”

Removing my foot from behind the door, I open it wider to discover a young man decorated from head to toe in tattoos, loitering behind Gerald. His cap sits backwards, and a tuft of dark brown hair sprouts through the closure above the strap. He stands a little taller as I drink in his muscled form.

Hurriedly, he wipes his palms on his gym shorts and leans around Gerald to hold out a hand. “How’s it gan?”

When I don’t immediately shake it in return, he swallows, and my focus narrows in on the stamp-style tattoo on his neck that reads BABY.

Instantly, the temperature in this poorly insulated building rises—and it has nothing to do with the unseasonably hot weather that currently suffocates London. It’s been a long time since I met someone who calls to that part of me.

Stepping out from my office forces Gerald to the side, where he’s no longer an obstruction, and I fold the stranger’s work-hardened hand in mine. His natural strength provides solid resistance when I shake it, but I keep a firm grip when I ask, “Name?”

We’re almost the same height, yet he angles his chin to look up at me. Warm brown eyes that rest above freckled cheeks narrow just a fraction before they twinkle with the promise of mischief. “Hi, Name. I’m Theo.”

Smirking, I break our contact to fold my arms across my chest and come toe-to-toe with young Theo. But it’s Gerald I coolly address when I ask, “Why is Theo here?”

Theo’s expression drops, and my heart patters with excitement. Baby Theo doesn’t like being ignored.

“He’s our newest recruit. Promising young man from strong farming stock, and a Master Cadet, no less. We could do with some fresh meat, don’t you agree, Hollis?” While Gerald wrestles a scraggy handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his sweaty cranium, I scrutinise Theo.

A Master Cadet. So, the kid knows weaponry, has tactical skills, and is confident and resilient. Yet… he’s not in the military, because he’s here—of all places. Problem with authority, maybe? Hopefully.

“Theo’s keen… eager to learn the ropes. And there’s nothing quite like the enthusiasm of youth, so he’ll be joining you today—as part of his onboarding—when you go to assess the new job. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that.”

“Wia bitte?” Shock has me asking in Austrian before I think of switching to English. “What do you mean, ‘When we go to assess the new job?’ Has Theo completed basic training?”

Gerald, having already stepped back at my earlier advance, steadily slinks along the wall. He smiles, likely aiming for disarming, and his gold tooth glints when he passes through the narrow band of light that spills from my open office door. Placatingly, he shows his palms and retreats further down the corridor.

“Staff shortages, Hollis, you know that.” His arms range wide. “You were born into this world; your first word was probably ghost.” Nervous laughter rings out, bouncing from the cheap wood panelling like drunks through the streets of Soho at two in the morning.