* * *
“Ghost, my ass,” Kenzie muttered to Pierce as they sat at a table in the corner. The older couple had sidled out, but the newlyweds had their arms wrapped around each other, their mouths meeting and parting, meeting again.
Kenzie had stepped out into the cold on the porch to call Bowman again while Pierce settled the tab. She’d explained to him where she and Pierce had gone. “Seriously?” Bowman had asked. He’d been slightly out of breath, as though he’d been running.
“We’re going to wait and see if he manifests,” Kenzie said. “Then I’m going to kick his ass.”
“Be careful.” Bowman’s rumbling voice warned her. “If he’s been lying to us, it means he’s dangerous. I’m coming out there.”
“No need,” Kenzie said. “Pierce is pretty good in a fight.” An understatement—he was one of the best fighters at the fight club, next to his cousin Jamie. “I promise if things go bad, we’ll back off.”
Bowman hesitated. She could tell he was torn—he wanted to come, but it was clear he was involved in things on his side. “All right, but keep in touch.”
“What are you doing?” Kenzie asked, worried.
“Stuff I should have done days ago. I’m taking over Turner’s house, holding him, and searching everything he’s got. He’s going to give me some answers.”
“You be careful,” Kenzie said, echoing his warning. Chasing Gil suddenly seemed like a picnic—a Shifter one, with plenty of food, drink, and sex. “I’ve read parts of Turner’s manuscript. He seems to know a lot about Shifters, I mean, back when they first appeared out of Fae gates. He speculates pretty close to the truth about how the original Shifters were created. He knows a lot about it, Bowman. More than anyone should.”
“Good. Then he’ll tell it all to me. I’ll wring the truth out of him.”
“And if you hurt him, he’ll call the police, and you’ll be arrested, caged, and probably killed.”
Bowman laughed with the snarling laugh he used when he was at his most angry. “In that case, I’ll let Cristian wring him in half for me. Don’t worry, Kenz. Turner will talk to me, not the police.”
Kenzie hung up, not reassured.
She and Pierce waited, restless, and sipped beers. They didn’t talk much. The honeymoon couple remained entwined, oblivious, their drinks untouched.
At around one, the bartender sent them a nod. “If you want to see the ghost, he usually shows up about now.”
Kenzie was on her feet and leaving the bar. She heard Pierce drop a tip on the table and follow her.
The hotel’s main staircase folded into the wall to the right of the front door. At the other end of the lofty main hall, however, behind the check-in counter, another set of stairs rose to a balcony. This staircase had an open balustrade with carved spindles and a polished railing. The gallery above it encircled the hall, with several doors opening off it.
Those were rooms in the original house, the woman who introduced herself as the innkeeper explained, and dated from 1840. The rest of the mansion had been added starting in the 1870s, with renovations continuing into the first decade of the twentieth century. The man who was now the ghost had lived here in the 1860s, adopted by the family when he was in his teens. He now returned to check on the place, it was said, to make sure the house his adopted family had left him was doing well.
Sure he does. Kenzie trained her glare on the balcony.
The older couple from the bar had been joined by two younger ones, and even the honeymoon couple emerged. All turned eagerly toward the staircase and gallery.
They waited. The large case clock in the hall struck half past one, then ticked on toward two.
One of the men behind her let out a long sigh. “He’s not going to show. I’m going to bed.”
He started to move, then his wife gasped, and Pierce said, “Whoa.”
Gil was there, on the balcony at the far end of the hall. He hadn’t been a second ago, but Kenzie blinked and then saw him in the shadows.
He was dressed in the old clothes he’d worn in the photo, including the rather battered hat, and stood so that the indirect light made his outline a little fuzzy. His smooth face was blank, his eyes strangely still as he gazed straight ahead, not looking down into the hotel. For a ghost reputed to be checking on his adopted family’s home, he seemed not to notice it.
“He’s really here,” a woman whispered. The click of a phone’s camera went off. “He’s so lifelike.”
Kenzie hid a snort and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, Gil,” she called.
He was good. Gil never looked at her, never moved his ghostly hand from where it rested on the railing, but Kenzie saw him start, saw his eyes flicker.
With a suddenness that had the rest of the guests jumping, she launched herself down the length of the hall, past the polished check-in counter, and up the gallery stairs.
“Shit,” Pierce said, and banged out the front door.
The innkeeper trotted futilely after Kenzie. “Wait—you can’t go up there.”
Gil performed to the end. He slowly lifted his hand and took a step back . . . and vanished.
Gone. Just like that. Kenzie blinked. Was he really a . . . ?
No. Ghosts didn’t exist, just as zombies didn’t. There’s no such thing as the walking dead, Bowman had growled.
Gil had to be using magic. Some kind of shaman magic that confused the eye, maybe, or a glam, as Ryan had speculated. Kenzie’s skepticism helped her see a flutter of movement at one of the doors, and hear a click as a latch caught.