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"Madam Kinderson," I said stiffly, giving her a curt nod rather than the elaborate bow I might once have offered a lady. "I see you have been given the key to Blackthorn Manor. I suppose that entitles you to remain here, though I must inform you that this house has belonged to my family for over four hundred years and I am still its master, whether I have a solid body or not."

"My new home?" She looked startled. "Oh, I didn't come to live here. I have to get back home—to my real home. I have to work tomorrow. I have a big presentation on share-holder values I have to give." She made a face as she spoke and I surmised that the task she spoke of was unpleasant.

"Then by all means, madam, go and give your presentation," I told her, feeling my temper flare again. "I certainly didn't invite you here, and I have no intention of begging you to stay. Unfortunately, the door through which you arrived appears to have closed behind you, so you may find returning to the Human Realm rather more difficult than you expect."

"What?" Her luminous green eyes widened. "You mean I'm stuck here?"

"For the moment, yes," I said shortly. "And since there is no available doorway back to the Human Realm, you might as well make yourself comfortable. Though I warn you, there are parts of this house which are strictly forbidden to visitors. I will not have some inexperienced witch poking about in places she doesn't understand and accidentally opening the Gateway!"

"Hey! Who said I was going to open anything?" she demanded. "I don't even know what this Gateway thing is! And for the last time, I didn't ask to come here!"

"Neither did I ask to have a strange woman deposited on my doorstep in the middle of the night!" I snapped back. "Yet here we are!"

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me, and I glared right back. I couldn't remember the last time I'd argued with anyone. Cordelia had been the only person who could hear me during the years before her death, and even she had only visited occasionally. I had almost forgotten what it was like to have someone answer me back, let alone a woman who seemed determined to contradict every word I said.

And the truly irritating thing was that I was enjoying it…not that I intended to tell her that, of course.

"Well, I guess we're stuck with each other for now," she said at last, sounding extremely annoyed. "But don't think I'm going to let you order me around just because you're some kind of ghostly landlord!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," I said dryly, though privately I thought this was going to be a most trying arrangement. "In the meantime, Madam Kinderson, since you appear to have the ability to touch my spectral form, may I ask you for a favor?"

"A favor? What kind of a favor?" She looked suddenly wary, as though she thought I might start bargaining for her soul. But I had no such desire in mind.

I hesitated, feeling strangely reluctant to ask. After all, I was Garrik Blackthorn, Guardian of the Gateway, master of Blackthorn Manor, and the last of my ancient bloodline. I was not accustomed to begging favors from anyone, least of all a woman who had just marched into my house and slapped me across the face.

But the memory of her warm hand connecting with my cheek was still fresh in my mind. I had spent a hundred years unable to feel the touch of another living soul. Now that I knew it was possible, I found myself hungry for the sensation again.

Damn my pride! I couldn't help myself.

"A small thing, really," I assured her, trying to sound as though I didn't care one way or the other. "If you please, would you mind slapping me again?"

4

CELESTE

“You want me to slap you again?” I stared at the ghost uncertainly. What kind of crazy request was that? First he was growling at me and telling me to get out of his house, and now he wanted me to hit him? I was beginning to think that a hundred years of haunting the same place had driven him a little crazy.

Because he definitely was a ghost—he was semi-transparent and his feet were floating a few inches above the ground. But other than being dead, he was pretty good looking. In fact, if I was being honest with myself, he was really good looking—which was a shame, considering that he was apparently also a complete grouch.

He was tall—notwithstanding the inches he gained by floating—and he was well built—muscular but not in that perfectly cut gym-rat kind of way. Instead, he had kind of what they call a “dad bod”—at least from what I could see through the white linen shirt and black trousers he wore. I say “trousers” and not pants because they were definitely old-fashioned trousers with suspenders that looped over his broad shoulders.

He had black curly hair streaked with silver at the temples and looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. As for the color of his eyes, they seemed to be blue—though it was hard to tell since he was transparent and everything colorful about him was washed out. He had a strong jaw and a rather stern-looking mouth, which was currently turned down in an impatient frown.

“Well?” he demanded, when I didn't answer him right away. “Are you going to slap me or not, woman? I haven't got all night!”

“Actually, considering that you've been haunting this place for a hundred years, I'd say you've got plenty of time,” I pointed out. “And is this some kind of trick? Do you get off on pain? Or do I get cursed too, as some kind of penalty for ghost abuse?”

“Ghost abuse?” He gave me a confused look. “No, madam—there is no penalty. And I most certainly do not take pleasure in pain! It is simply that I have not felt the hand of another upon my flesh for nigh upon a century. Surely you can understand why I might wish to experience the sensation again!”

Bartleby gave a hissing laugh, which was a very strange sound to hear coming out of a cat.

“That’s a lot of fancy words to say that no one has touched him in over a hundred years and he wants to feel your hand on him again,” he remarked.

The ghost’s cheeks turned a very pale pink, and I realized he was embarrassed. Not that he was going to admit it, apparently.

“Oh, shut your furry little mouth!” he growled at Bartleby. “How would you feel if no one could stroke your back and scratch behind your ears ever again? Do not deny you would hunger for touch—I know how much you always loved it when Cordelia petted you.”

Bartleby made a snarky noise and curled his tail around his paws.