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I crouched beside him. “Mr. Huang, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
He couldn’t answer. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. White foam seeped from his mouth. I tried to hold him still, to prevent him from injuring himself. I wondered whether this was how he hurt himself seven months ago. A transformation gone awry. I’d heard stories about epileptic shifters whose convulsions occasionally caused problems.
The tail and the wings returned, along with the rest of his supernatural form. I thought he was on the mend. Then his human body returned and grew still.
Bruce Huang wasn’t a gargoyle; he was a dragon shifter.
A very dead dragon shifter.
It didn’t take long for the ward to respond to Bruce’s death. It suddenly seemed like the walls were closing in on me, even though they remained in the same place. Breathing became difficult as magic filled my lungs. I stared at Bruce’s body in a state of shock. My powers weren’t responsible for his death, but I had no idea what was. It seemed to be a type of failsafe magic implanted in his brain.
The back door was still ajar. I felt a tug toward it, then a burst of air forced me away from Bruce’s body. The house was trying to expel me. I gripped the counter in a valiant attempt to stay put. I wanted to explore the house to uncover its secret, as well as wait and see whether Bruce’s spirit made an appearance. I knew if I left now, I might never get back in.
The open doorway sucked me toward it like a vacuum. My fingers slipped free of the butcher block, and I went sailing across the threshold into the great outdoors. I landed on the grass with a hard thud as the door slammed closed. I sat on the grass, listening to the sound of my heartbeat as it thundered between my ears. Remembering Bruce’s burning flesh, I wiped my hands on the grass. My fingertips felt slightly numb.
I scrambled to my feet and rushed back to the door. Locked, of course. The handle burned my skin for good measure. Stifling a cry of pain, I let go. I retreated to the backyard and struggled to think clearly.
What in the hell just happened? Who are ‘they?’
My throat ran dry as reality set in. Bruce was dead. He tried to warn me. He seemed aware of the trigger inside him. Nevertheless, I insisted on pushing the issue for the safety of everyone else, and poor Bruce suffered the consequences. The fact that he’d been spelled to die rather than reveal certain information convinced me that my instincts were right, though—whatever was in that house was too important to ignore.
I debated what to tell Fatima. I certainly couldn’t tell her the truth. The existence of ghosts was hard enough for Big Boss to digest, forget dragon shifters and magic wards. I deleted Bruce’s photo from my phone. Proof of life no longer seemed like a good idea. I wouldn’t be able to explain what happened. As much as Chief Garcia appreciated my prior assistance with Ashley Pratt, the police chief wouldn’t be able to ignore my presence during Bruce’s untimely death. It would invite too many questions that I couldn’t—wouldn’t answer.
As I walked back to my truck, I noticed a neighbor watching me from his front porch across the street. I offered a friendly wave, and he returned the greeting.
“Everything okay with Bruce?” he called.
I shook my head. Word would spread like an STI in a nursing home, I knew that much, but I had to say something to keep people away from the house before I had a chance to deal with the charred remains of Bruce’s body.
I sat in the driver’s seat and texted Fatima what she wanted to hear, that Bruce was dead. I also told her his ghost was being stubborn and that I needed to win his trust and help him cross over. The lie would buy me time to figure out how to get back inside the house and discover what exactly Bruce Huang had been protecting all these years.
CHAPTER3
“Your garden is a disaster,” Nana Pratt said.
“I have eyes, thank you.” I tugged at the resistant weeds and showed them who’s in charge, tossing them into the compost bin. I had too much pent-up energy to stay indoors. Bruce Huang’s death was tormenting me; my brain seemed incapable of doing anything except replay the tragic events of yesterday. Even my dreams conspired against me, and that was a rarity.
“You should plant a blend of perennials and annual wildflowers in this corner because of the partial sun,” the elderly ghost advised. “The nursery in town has better prices than any of the big chain stores, so check there first.”
“I’m only keeping the weeds under control at the moment. I’ll get to the beautification part next spring.” Maybe. Fixing up the Castle was proving to be a monumental task, not that I expected anything less. The exterior would require as much work as the interior of the sprawling house.
“It’s a good thing the temperature is starting to cool off,” Nana Pratt prattled. “The moat was starting to stink.”
“How would you know? You can’t smell anything.”
“I absolutely can,” she said, indignant.
“You only think you can.”
“The way you think you can cook?” she shot back.
I arched an eyebrow. “I don’t profess to be a master chef.” Pops taught me the basics and that was where my culinary education ended. My parade of foster parents hadn’t been too eager to hand me a knife, not because I’d been violent toward them, but because they seemed to sense I was different. To be fair, I carted around a lot of emotions after Pops died. I felt more lost and alone than any other time in my life, including when my parents died. Pops had been my rock. He’d been desperate to make it until I turned eighteen, but death was something neither of us could prevent.
“Did you know Bruce Huang?” I asked.
“No, he kept to himself,” Nana Pratt said. “Made it clear to all of us he didn’t want to be part of the community. Years ago, some of the ladies from church tried to persuade him to join the potlucks, but they eventually gave up.”
“Because he stopped answering the door?”
