Hellsinger 01 - Fish and Ghosts (P) (MM) (16 page)

“No, we can’t.” Wolf pursed his lips, grim with the awareness they’d brought a certain destruction into Tristan’s calm and orderly world. “And we sure as hell can’t wait to find that out. Let me make a few calls. I think I know someone who can help. I just need you to trust me to help, Tris.”

“Do I have a choice?” Tristan answered wearily. “I don’t have anyone else, remember? The world thinks I’m crazy. Now you’re crazy too. Welcome to my life, Kincaid. However long I have it.”

Chapter 9

“H
OLY
SHIT
, ghosts are real,” Matt said around a mouthful of Black Lager. “I mean, really, that’s what this is all about. We actually
found
ghosts.”

Freshly showered but still buzzing with excitement, Wolf joined his team, who’d fled to the ballroom. Once the scare had subsided, the first thing they’d all thought about was the cameras and what they’d captured on video. Tristan slunk away, shaking off Wolf’s offer to join them once he’d cleaned up. The blond muttered something about needing space and possibly hard liquor. Wolf agreed with him about the booze. He’d liberated a six pack of Guinness from the walk-in as soon as he hit the first floor, snatching the lager up as well as some jerky. His two technicians were already into the chips and cookies from their snack table, and he tossed them each a small bag of dried meat, ordering them to get some protein into them.

“There’s nothing on the screens,” Gidget muttered from her perch in front of their monitors. Her lager sat unopened next to her, the bottle dripping its condensation onto a napkin set under it. “There’s absolutely nothing but a couple of flickers. The ax shows up pretty solid. Looks like poltergeist activity, but nothing on Grandma Crazy Bitch.”

“Her name’s Winifred.” Sniffing behind his beer bottle, Matt grinned at Wolf and put his feet up onto a crate next to him. Easing his chair back, he rocked back and forth, a silly grin on his friendly face. “Dude, a real fucking ghost. We could make millions off this shit.”

“Or people are going to chase you down to put you in a straitjacket like they did Tristan,” Wolf pointed out. “His uncle’s the reason we’re here. You don’t think the guy’s going to be calling for butterfly nets if we go to him and say Tristan’s ghosts are real?”

“But isn’t that the truth?” Gidget’s voice was soft but cut through them with a sharp condemnation. “He’s telling the truth. The Grange
does
have at least one ghost. We
saw
her, and we know where she came from. Shouldn’t the truth set him free? Doesn’t he deserve that kind of validation?”

“Yeah, he does.” Matt stretched to grab Gidget’s lager and popped off the cap with a twist of his hand. “Dude’s not crazy. There’s shit happening here. Even if we don’t have proof, we saw it. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

“We came here to bury Tristan, not to praise him.” The day had left a harsh stamp on Gidget’s face, and she slumped back into her chair, giving into her exhaustion. “Isn’t that how it goes? Even if we say we’re open to all possibilities, we’re sitting here still looking for
some
proof of what we’ve lived through. So we can show who? The world? Tristan’s asshat of an uncle?”

“I’d rather be Marc Antony than Brutus in this,” Wolf admitted. “Let me go talk to Tristan first. He needs to know what will be in my report to his uncle—that the Grange is definitely haunted. I’ll probably leave out the fact that we’ve brought a poltergeist to his door and chased off the other ghosts, but I don’t think that’s what Pryce Senior’s going to be focusing on.”

“I really thought Tristan was nuts.” Matt frowned, then reached for his lover’s hand and squeezed Gidget’s fingers. “How are we going to deal with this kind of shit? She could have hurt you. Maybe? And what Tristan said? She’ll grow stronger. That’s insane.”

There was no shared glance of amusement between them. Not on this. The appearance of the ghost was enough to rattle their carefully laid down skepticism. The existence of the ghostly woman was going to alter how they viewed every case going forward, coloring their necessary neutrality. Coming to the Grange would change all of them, and Wolf suspected most of the changes in his life rested in the hands of the blond man lurking upstairs in his ivory tower.

“Like we deal with everything we have so far,” Wolf replied softly. “We go into every job with a clear mind and a need to search for the truth. That can’t change. The only thing that might be different is that we’ll have a better idea on what to look for. Our job here isn’t done, guys. Yeah, we found a ghost, and we can tell Tristan’s uncle—”

“But we brought it here,” Gidget responded. “Well, I did. We’ve got to fix it. Somehow.”

“Yeah, I’ve got people I can call in to help with that,” he said ruefully. “But right now, time to go make my speech to the crowd and try to convince him I’m not the one holding the dagger.”

H
E
HEARD
Kincaid before he saw him. It wasn’t hard to say that. Especially since Tristan was lying stomach down, on his bed with his face buried in his pillows. Boris’s weight on his legs shifted as the dog slithered off the bed to greet Wolf. The dog’s soft chuffing whines lowered to a few chuffs as Wolf murmured his hellos. Boris’s nails snicked across the floor, and a few moments later, the sound of his dog tag hitting his metal food bowl out in the living area jingled in Tristan’s ears. A few seconds later, the bed dipped down, and Tristan did his own grumbling, muttering foul things into his feather pillows when Wolf’s hand skimmed across his shoulder blades.

“Hey, you,” Wolf murmured. “You doing okay?”

“Go away.” He didn’t know if Kincaid could hear him. Hell, he could barely hear himself through the linens and down, but Tristan was pretty happy with how fierce he sounded. Not nearly as terrifying as being chased through his home with an ax, but still impressive. If he’d been standing up and frowning, he might have even gotten a derisive snort from Kincaid. He wasn’t going to hope for anything more than that. The Pryces were never a warrior stock, and he certainly didn’t buck the trend.

“You know you’re covered in mud, right?”

Wolf didn’t have to point out the obvious. He’d been flaking dirt chunks since before they’d left the alcove. Ruining the bedsheets was something that occurred to him long after he’d bounced down on the bed and hugged his pillow to his face. In fact, there was probably even evidence of his primal screaming into the pillow left behind. He only had to lift his head and pass the cotton case off as an early Munch.

“Fuck off.” It seemed like a wholly appropriate response, and in a perfect world where Tristan’s anger might have made the skies quiver in fear, Wolf would have fled from the room, averting his eyes from Tristan’s enraged form.

Instead, Wolf’s hand continued to stroke at the tense bundles of muscles along Tristan’s shoulders and spine, making murmuring sounds that reminded Tristan of an enraptured guinea pig.

“Come on, get into the shower, and I’ll change your sheets for you.” Wolf slid his hand down to Tristan’s side and gently turned him over, probably smearing more drying mud into the already filthy linens.

Tristan allowed himself to be turned over. Either he was a glutton for punishment or the subconscious part of his mind was tired of being alone in his sulk. It didn’t much matter the why of it, not when Wolf’s broad, warm hand on his side made him think of better ways to dirty his sheets.

“I’m really pissed off at you.” It sounded weak even to him. There was no trembling rage in his voice or any towering fury. Instead, his traitorous mouth and tongue slid a husky rasp into his words, wrapping a seductive slither around them. He forged ahead anyway, trying to concentrate more on what he was saying than the long, blunt fingers seemingly counting his ribs through his shirt.

“Yeah.” Wolf made a show of studying his face. “You look it. Come on, I’ve got to talk to you about… well, kind of everything. It’s hard to do that with you cosplaying Pig Pen.”

“Is Gidget okay?” That hand continued with its slow revolutions over Tristan’s side, and he shivered when Wolf’s fingers strayed farther down to his hip. Tristan’s cock certainly took notice, sending maddening tingles of awareness to his brain.

“Yeah, she’s… worried about you. Matt’s kind of freaking out you’re up here by yourself.”

He didn’t want to say it. In fact, Tristan locked his teeth over the tip of his tongue to stop himself from spilling out what was lingering on the treacherous pink muscle in his mouth, but apparently his entire mouth was in on the rebellion, because what he said next certainly was nothing he wanted Wolf to hear. He’d never flirted in his life, or if he had, it had been such a catastrophe neither he nor the guy he’d tried to chat up even realized Tristan was making the effort. Apparently now, his brain decided to kick in and give it a try, because as angry as he was at Wolf, he needed someone to touch him. To anchor him before he drowned in his uncertainty.

“And you?” His rasp grew huskier, if that was possible, and Tristan wondered if something had actually crawled into him to possess at least his voice box. “You worried too?”

The man’s dark-blue eyes flickered with heat and a shadowy something Tristan badly wanted to explore. He was playing with a fire he wouldn’t survive, and still his tongue and the rest of his body merrily danced onward toward his destruction. Flames were licking at his skin, and Tristan shifted on the bed, unsure how to take Wolf’s silent perusal.

Lifting himself up onto his elbows, Tristan brought his face closer as Wolf bent toward him. The man’s warm breath blurred away the chill on Tristan’s mouth, and he licked his upper lip, suddenly nervous enough to swallow at the lump forming in his throat.

Daring himself to do something, Tristan tilted his chin up, stretching his neck out until his mouth barely stroked Wolf’s lower lip. Gently, he kissed the rounded, moist skin there, pinking the underside of Wolf’s lip with his warmth. Hooding his eyes, Tristan felt his tongue slip free of his lips and skim the stubble-roughened spot under Wolf’s mouth, leaving a tiny damp buss behind.

“I am so not going to fucking regret this,” Wolf growled. “But I
just
got clean.”

Whatever thoughts Tristan had—whatever the dangerous part of his mind thought would happen—were seared away from the intensity of Wolf’s response. The room darkened, either from the storm outside thickening its strength or the lights being drowned out by the sharp darkness of Wolf’s answering lust. Either way, the room’s thin light stole away from them, wrapping them in a dim blanket.

His legs were pressed in, shoved together by Wolf’s knees, and his arms were suddenly warmed by rough hands moving up over his elbows to his shoulders. His mouth was invaded, his lips pushed open by a forceful tongue hot with promise. Tristan tried to answer Wolf’s lust with as much skill as he could, but the onslaught on his senses proved to be overwhelming, and for a long moment he could only gasp and mewl, yearning to beg for more but afraid of what those words would bring him.

There was too much going on between them for Tristan to find one thing to concentrate on. Wolf’s entire body lowered down on him, rubbing and smearing the mud on his clothes and skin. The other man’s weight felt good, too good for him to believe he’d not had someone lie on him before. He felt Wolf everywhere, tasted him in places Tristan knew he didn’t have a tongue.

But there his hands were, reveling in the flavor of the man they held close.

Wolf’s tongue was exploring his mouth in long, sweeping lines. He gasped when Wolf’s fingers tangled through the hair at the back of his head and pulled, forcing Tristan to bare his throat. Wolf left his mouth empty and longing, and Tristan hated the whimpering, needy sound he made when cold air rushed in to replace Wolf’s heat against his lips. The mouth he needed found a new place on his throat, and the teeth that had been just nibbling on the corner of his gasping lips sunk into the curve of his neck, a spot seemingly connected to his nuts, since they pulled up in response.

The man felt so good on him. Wolf’s broad chest stretched across his, and when the man moved, Tristan’s shirt rubbed at his sensitive nipples, the fabric scoring his tender flesh. Arched into Wolf’s hard body, Tristan moaned and clenched at whatever part of the man he could reach. His fingers roamed, unable to see the muscled landscape they explored, but there were tantalizing hints of hard bulges and slightly rough skin that could only belong to another man.

Gasping only pulled Wolf’s scent into him, and Tristan inhaled entire gulps of sweat and sweet skin, tasting the citrus from the soap he’d put in the guest bathrooms as well as the burn of lager foam lingering on his tongue from their kiss. The contrast of their bodies fascinated Tristan. Wolf’s bones were heavier, denser than his, or at least that’s how the man’s hands felt as they pressed into Tristan’s body.

Letting go of Tristan’s hair, Wolf worked both his hands into Tristan’s shirt, yanking it up over his head and off his shoulders. Their arms tangled briefly as the shirt snagged on Tristan’s elbow, but Wolf was determined. Something ripped, either fabric or thread, but Tristan was past caring. All he wanted was to be handled and coaxed by Wolf’s tongue and fingers, his body eager to be touched.