Ghost Killer (22 page)

“Ugh.” She refused to imagine that any further than the first image that had popped
into her head.

Zach hung up his coat and hers, opened his suitcase, and retrieved a tube of metal
that he extended into a sturdy cane. She jerked the sheathed knife from her purse,
heard another little rip, and winced. With shaky fingers, she undid the knot, opened
the sheath, tossed the knife on the bed. Zach scooped it up.

“My fight!” she growled, as she took a few precious seconds to study the cloth, pulled
it inside out . . . better for mending . . . but she wanted to keep the darn patterns
on the front as aligned as possible.

“Unless you want
me
to try and mend that, I’ll stand guard.” He moved around the bed toward the balcony
door, took the step that kept him between the door and the window.

“Do you sew?” she asked, turning on the light on the wall over the bed and sitting
beneath it, her back now to Zach and the outer wall.

“No.” A beat of silence. “Black thread?”

“I’m thinking of it as yin and yang,” Clare said, taking the first few stitches at
one of the rips that didn’t have a circle with lines in it. “I think I’ve seen these
patterns before, series of broken and unbroken lines. Each different, though I can’t
recall when.”

“Probably something woo-woo, and you weren’t into that.”

“Probably.”

She set the stitches, focusing on the cloth. Not the time to go fast now. If those
circles were protection, better that they were mended as perfectly as she could.

Ten minutes passed before she
felt
the ghost zooming their way. “It’s coming, Zach,” she said. It would probably come
through the window . . . from behind her. She twitched, her needle caught a thread,
pulled it, nearly across the whole tube. Darn it! A tiny sigh escaped her as she saw
it didn’t disturb any of the circles. She was doing okay with keeping them aligned
and together with the tiniest of stitches. She had no clue what would happen if the
six lines in the circle became five or four because she’d turned the material under,
if a broken line became a solid one.

The wind whistled out on the balcony, rattled the windows so that the lace curtains
shivered as if they were wraiths themselves. Rain poured on the roof.

“Come on in,
monster
, we are waiting for you,” Zach taunted in a low and vicious voice.

Complete quiet . . . at least outside. Inside Clare could hear the raised voices of
the couple next door in the Commodore room, the Jackpot beyond, and even some across
the hall.

Fingers trembling, Clare bent her head and concentrated on her sewing, in and out,
small stitches, as perfect as she could make them, but the nape of her neck prickled.
Whispering, not knowing how much of regular speech the ghost could hear or comprehend,
she said, “Ask it about Enzo. What it said about sin.”

SIN
, the ghost battered against the window. Clare whisked her head around for a glance.
More than the shades, more than the curtains, showed white. The snowstorm looked a
little like the lace.

“What sin?” asked Zach in a low tone.

The DOG’S sin!

“WHAT SIN?” ZACH
persisted. Clare continued to sew. She was coming to the end of the longest tear in
the tube. Did she dare switch out thread to white and try to repair the tiny lines?
Hurriedly she knotted off the black thread, concentrated
only
on threading the needle with white, not on the conversation happening behind her.

And Zach
did
hear the monstrous spirit. She could tell from the flatness of his voice. Not because
of her, but because of Enzo. Enzo heard and suffered, and she and Zach both felt that.

“Betrayal?” Zach asked casually.

BETRAAAYYYAAALLL!
It shrieked through her brain and she
had
to pause in her mending to see, to watch. Zach rocked back on his heels, set his
cane.

“Enzo betrayed no one!” Clare snapped. She steadied her hands. Her fingers had finally
remembered sewing and she began trying to weave minuscule threads of the characters
of one pattern together.

He betrayed! He was with the child.

“What?” Zach demanded.

He was with the child. He left his true companion for the child!
the ghost spat . . . sleet hit the window, the door, slashed through the room. Clare
hunched over the silk, then straightened as the words sank in.

She said, aloud and mind-to-mind,
I do not think that was betrayal.

You hurt with the hurt of betrayal. I FELT you. He is mine now.

Clare put aside the silk.
No. I don’t accept that as betrayal!

Shrieking pummeled her ears, whipped through the room.
Only I make that judgment. Only me.

“Give him
back
!” Clare yelled.

Zach made a slashing gesture. Clare bit her lip so no more shouts spewed from her.
The hotel had quieted as if people were listening.

No! And no, and no!
The phantom shrieked with the wind. The last “no” sounded accented . . . Spanish
or something.

“What’s your name? Tell me your name,” Zach commanded.

Em— NO! You no catch ME. You no bind ME!

“We’ll
extinguish
you,” Zach promised savagely. “You killer ghost.” He thrust at the thing hovering
in the window with the sheathed knife.

A gasp, more than a gasp. All the air seemed sucked from the room. Clare panted, spots
forming in front of her eyes. Zach leaned on his cane. His longish black hair blew
away from his face. His jaw gritted.

Enzo wailed in her mind, then the coldness vanished just as quickly as it came. Clare
sensed the phantom had withdrawn once again up to the start of Bachelor Loop and the
confluence of the Willow creeks. The thing moved a little differently now. Slower
if it wanted to bring wind and weather; faster if it just wanted to fight. Clare swallowed.

Zach’s inhaled breath sounded as deep as the ghost’s . . . well, it sounded, which
was a blessing. He placed the knife carefully on the corner of the bed near him.

Clare heard the faint murmur of other voices, probably people next door. Yes, this
was definitely a hotel built in 1905 without any soundproofing. She’d have to remember
that next time they made love.

Zach cleared his throat, and Clare got the idea that the talk with the apparition,
its manipulation of the atmosphere, had clogged him up some. A side of his mouth lifted.
“We seem to be holding our own.”

His words had her checking that inner wound of hers. Yes, it hurt . . . actually stung
like it had ripped open even more, and ached. She didn’t say anything, wasn’t sure,
now, what might possibly cure it. Perhaps the death of the ghost. Maybe.

She answered him. “Holding our own. That’s important.”

“Yes, it is.” He zipped closed the inner pocket of her suitcase and the bag itself,
set it upright back near the pole that held their hanging clothing, then sat next
to her.

“You done with that—” He stopped abruptly. His mouth opened and closed. “You switched
from the black thread to some that matched the silk.” He stared at the ivory silk
sheath, touched the tassels with a finger. They were sleek and silky as if new.

Glancing at the tube, she made a soundless, disbelieving noise. The sheath looked
whole. Perfect. As if it had never been torn at all. She touched it with a finger,
then pulled it close to knot and snip the white—white, not ivory—thread. The minute
she did so, the small ends vanished. Now she had to clear her throat, too. “It’s been
a while since I mended anything. I pricked myself on the needle. I perspired a little
bit, too. There . . . aren’t any blood spots or stains on the cloth.” In fact, every
minute she looked at the ivory tube it looked nicer.

Zach leaned over and picked up the knife again, hissed through his teeth, and handed
her the weapon.

He muttered something under his breath.

“What?” Clare asked.

He switched his intensity to her, flicked the cloth sheath with his finger, pointed
to the knife. “Damn vampiric blade.”

She jerked a little at the phrase. Picking it up, she stared at it, settled it back
in the sheath and tied the tassels in a simple knot, got up and put it on the vanity.

“Looks like the sheath is blood-sucking, too,” he grumbled. “You said that when the
Other reamed you out, he-it-whatever called the knife a tool.”

“And so it is.”

Zach grunted, then said, “A weapon is a tool all right, but this is something more.”

She returned to the bed and scooted back against the pillows. “Everything in my life
is more, now.” Her smile felt wobbly. “I have a fortune. I have a ‘gift’ of communicating
with ghosts so they can pass on. I have a supernatural tutor who despises me. I don’t
have a real dog, I have a ghost—” she choked.

He rose and drew her up and into his arms, and they stood together. After a few seconds,
he began to rock with her, and she forced
stupid
tears of self-pity back. Whispering, she said, “And I have a magnificent, larger-than-life
lover, a man I wouldn’t have dared to love in my previous life.”

“Don’t make me a hero,” he said roughly.

“I’m not. You are, Zach, you simply are.” To her horror, little whimpering sobs erupted
from her. “G-g-good grief.”

“You’ve been through a lot.” He sat her on the bed.

Clare shrugged. “I’m just
not
prepared for this.” She paused, couldn’t help herself. “It would have been
so
much better if I’d had a few months of . . . this new vocation . . . under my belt.
Or an easier monster to work with. Then I’d’ve known the requirements, how to discover
a core identity. You did great, by the way.”

“Thanks. Let’s forget about the wraith now, and let your lover make love with you.”
He took off her vest, pulled her sweater and tank over her head, unclasped her bra,
and his hands went to her breasts, caressing them.

With gratitude, she let her mind fuzz as her body clamored for release, and she undressed
him. She participated wholeheartedly in the active and demanding sex, pleased when
she made him groan, when they joined, when they reached rapture together.

They lay and she could see the window. The shades behind the thin lace curtains hung
flat, relieving her. All too easily she could imagine an evil face pressed up against
the window.

She feared seeing a face instead of a whirlwind of snow. Not that the opaque white
roller shades had kept the thing out. Her imagination had come back online. Pity.

Zach stroked her side, draped his arm around her, his hand resting near her stomach.

Stress had tightened her muscles again, and tight muscles in bed were only good when
you were making love. She remembered the relaxation exercise of her new yoga class,
and began releasing every muscle . . .

“Would help if the Other wasn’t such a jerk,” Zach mumbled. “Guess it goes to show
that spiritual-type beings aren’t that much more evolved than we are.”

“He said”—and Clare had always figured the Other for more male than female—“that he
could only help me once a year.” That just felt totally wrong. She’d had pretty much
nonstop cases for the last month. In a year . . . But fear gnawed her that she wouldn’t
survive the week. Her body began to tremble.

Zach tightened his arm around her, grunted sleepily, and she kept quiet. The gush
of feeling she’d had for him earlier had been absolutely sincere, but they’d had enough
ups and downs for her to know he had faults just like her. Manlike—well, maybe humanlike—he
didn’t care for any over-the-top emotions, complimentary or the opposite.

Relax . . . every . . . muscle . . . Nothing stalking her, them, outside on the long
balcony. No threat to their neighbors, in the next room, or the one beyond either.

At Wagon Wheel Gap the Other had sent the ghost on its way, and it hadn’t fully manifested
later. Zach had nearly sussed its name out of it. What a boon that would have been!

He was right. They were holding their own, and that was necessary until they had the
ghost’s core identity. Knew its name.

Though Clare had no doubt that the ghost would extract vengeance for this last fight.
No, when doing the relaxing every muscle thing, you also banished negative thoughts.
She began deep breathing, inhaled and smelled Zach and the tang of him, the hint of
sage that she associated with him. His warmth comforted her back. His sheer presence
comforted her heart, spirit, soul . . . whatever parts she had.

Flashes of the fights with the wraith highlighted her memory: the pain of tooth and
razor-whip slices, the multimouths of half-consumed ghosts shrieking in fear and demanding
she help end their torment, the quick sight of Enzo in a thinning bubble-capsule looking
at her with doomed eyes . . . Her own eyes filled and she let the tears trickle down.
She plucked a wadded tissue from under her pillow and wept into it.

Why hadn’t she watched him better? Kept him closer? Sent him home to Denver so he
wasn’t at risk?

Now she’d lost the being who’d been with her from the very beginning and it tore her
up.

Too much sadness, too many tears. She let her exhausted mind and emotions quiet, breathed
deeply and regularly, relaxed muscle by muscle, and when, again, torturing thoughts
and images paraded in front of her mind’s eye, she let them pass and refused to dwell
on them. Finally, even the indirect light of the moon faded as it rose too high to
beam against the shade and sleep descended like a soft blanket.

It had taken Clare too long to fall asleep. Though Zach kept his breathing steady
and his body loose around Clare—except for his dick, but
her
body was accustomed to that portion of him being stiff around her—fury raged in him,
flooding his mind with a red haze. He was a much better actor than Clare, and he could
lie with his body.

Circumstances were changing Clare and it riled him.

*   *   *

They woke later in the morning, spooned together and at the same time, and Zach was
glad of it. Clare had needed the sleep, and he sensed that no nightmares had plagued
her. Good.

She stiffened in his arms, made a small, grief-stricken sound.

He rubbed her back. “You remembered that we’ve lost Enzo—temporarily.” He said it
with all the calm confidence he had. Whether she knew it or not, Clare responded to
that tone from him. It soothed her and supported her, and he was going to use every
tool at his command to get them through this.

Sliding his hands down, he moved one to her breast and began to stroke her nipple;
one he slipped between her legs and found her damp. She caught her breath and he gave
her sweet, sweet attention, enjoying the hardening of his morning arousal.

Sighs and cries, soft moans and whimpers, and a soft rise to release and an even softer
fall, together, holding each other, eased them into the morning. Clare rolled out
of bed first, took the hotel robe and the key to the bathroom, and left.

Zach stretched out on the double bed and stacked his hands behind his head. It was
Wednesday. They needed to keep moving on this case, and fast. Wrap it up Saturday
morning at the latest, though from the fliers he’d seen, the first event of Cruisin’
the Canyon took place Friday afternoon. Having it done by Friday would be better.

And he didn’t have enough real facts to know that they could do that. They had the
knife, the bloody, bloodthirsty knife. The weapon was ready. The person holding that
weapon, Clare, might or might not be. Enzo being taken by the specter had been a bad
mistake on its part. That made her even more determined. Of course she’d fight for
Caden, but she’d only met him once. Enzo had been with her since her psychic gift
had been dumped on her, had helped her through the first bad times. Clare would never
forget that, and she’d fight all the harder because of it.

The piece of the puzzle that would be the difficult one was finding the dead sucker’s
name . . . Zach grunted.
Sucker
might be a word to keep in mind. Soapy Smith had been a con man, and Robert Ford
had run a gang, too. They’d clashed, and later Ford had died. Plenty of leeway for
betrayal in those circumstances.