Bat #2
Charlie caught me staring. That pleased little smile tugged at his lips, the one that made him look younger, less exhausted by life’s bullshit.
He held up the books. “Found these in the charity shop. Thought you might like them? They’re proper space opera.
Galactic empires, sentient ships, that sort of thing.
Lady Grimthorne hopefully won’t be as interested in them, and they’re long enough to last you ages. ”
I couldn’t speak for a moment. Just floated there like an absolute melt, staring at this man who’d thought so much about books for a dead bloke he’d only just met.
“Thank you,” I managed finally. The words felt inadequate. “Seriously, Charlie. You did brilliant.”
His flush started at his collar, creeping up his neck in splotches of pink. He ducked his head, fiddling with the chess set box suddenly. “It’s nothing. Just… you know. Thought you deserved something for yourself.”
Christ, he was going to be the death of me. Again.
I picked up one of the hefty Outlander books, with a cover of a man in a kilt looking brooding and windswept on a Scottish moor, all muscles and flowing hair.
“Hundreds and hundreds of pages of sexy, half-dressed men? You’ve outdone yourself.
Lady G is going to weep with joy. She probably won’t leave you alone now.
” I paused, letting my voice drop. “I’ll have competition. ”
He glanced away, that adorable pink flush deepening to something closer to red.
I floated closer to the bed, gesturing at the space opera novels. “These, though. I’ll treasure these always.” I meant it. Every word. “You did great, Charlie. Really great.”
His hands stilled on the chess set. The crimson spread across his entire face, right to the tips of his ears.
Delicious.
I drifted even closer, letting my voice drip with barely concealed seduction. “Do let me know how I could possibly thank you, kind sir.”
Charlie cleared his throat. Once. Twice. “You can help me with my job. Our manor investigation.”
I pouted, floating in a lazy circle around him. “I can think of at least five different things that would be much more fun. And that’s just with clothes on.”
“You’re a nightmare,” Charlie groaned, now fully refusing eye contact, pretending intense fascination with a colouring book featuring a mermaid riding a dolphin.
“Well, zap me with your gun.”
When Charlie groaned even deeper, I admitted defeat. I’d never had much “game” when I was alive, so I wasn’t overly surprised my flirting as a ghost was sub-par.
I sighed, gesturing toward the door. “Come on, then, let’s go see Lady G. She’ll tell you there’s no bloody witch here.”
Charlie lugged the books all the way to the library, arms straining under the weight. I offered to carry some, which earned me an eye roll.
Lady Grimthorne sat in her usual armchair by the fire. Upon seeing us enter, she rose to her feet—a feat I rarely witnessed. Usually, she preferred to hold court from her seat like the aristocrat she’d been in life.
But now she swept forward, one hand pressed to her chest in mock surprise. “Master Charlie! You return bearing gifts!” She performed a little curtsy, the kind reserved for visiting royalty. “How extraordinarily kind.”
Charlie, bless him, played along. He set the books on the reading table with a flourish. “For you, my lady. I hope they meet your approval.”
Lady Grimthorne descended upon the Outlander collection like a woman starved. She picked up the first book, running translucent fingers over the cover. The kilted man stared up at her, with that smouldering intensity I myself could never manage.
She fanned herself dramatically. “Oh, my.” Her eyes flicked to Charlie, sparkling with mischief. “It appears you and I share the same taste in men.”
“Excellent taste,” Charlie agreed, grinning.
I grumbled something about brains over brawn that neither of them paid attention to. Not that I was jealous. I wasn’t. Just because I didn’t have bulging muscles or look like I could toss a caber didn’t mean—
“Anyway,” I cut through, bored of fictional Scotsmen getting more attention than me, “more importantly, Charlie found this stupid book in town. The Grim History of Grimthorne by Alan Cromwell. It’s got a load of bollocks in it about this manor being haunted by a witch.
Now his partner Brad is obsessed with tracking her down to rekill her. ”
Lady Grimthorne’s eyes widened. She made her way back over to her armchair, settling into it with a deliberate care that suggested she needed the support.
“Really now?” Her fingers drummed against the armrest. “What does it say?”
“The usual witchy rubbish,” I said. “That she terrorised the town with curses and hexes. Missing livestock, sick children, failed crops.”
Charlie nodded. “Says her name was Margery Darke.”
At the sound of that name, Lady Grimthorne flinched. Just a tiny movement, barely perceptible, but I caught it.
“Well?” I gestured at her. “Aren’t you going to tell Charlie that there’s no witch here?”
Lady Grimthorne opened her mouth. Then snapped it shut. Her gaze drifted to the fire, watching flames that gave off no heat.
Confusion prickled through me. “Lady G?” She ignored me. “Well…” I said, turning to Charlie, “I know all the ghosts in this residence. Every single one. And there’s no Margery Darke.”
Lady Grimthorne’s shoulders tensed.
“Is there?” I pressed.
“You’re quite right, Bartholomew.” Her words came out sharp, brittle. “Have you seen any witches?”
“No…” I floated closer to her chair. “But you’re the oldest one here, so—”
“That doesn’t mean I know everything!”
The flames in the fireplace roared upward, crackling and spitting. Charlie jumped back with a yelp, stumbling into the bookshelf behind him.
I didn’t think. Just reached for his hand.
To my surprise, he took it. Gripped it tightly, fingers threading through mine like I was something solid he could anchor himself to.
The contact sent a shock of static racing up my arm. I squeezed back, probably harder than necessary, but I didn’t care. He was warm and real and holding my hand.
“But… you take great pride in knowing everything and anything about this manor,” I said slowly, keeping my voice level. “Every story, every secret. It’s what you do.”
Lady Grimthorne’s face twisted. She jumped to her feet, gathering her skirts in agitated fists. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She swept toward the door, back ramrod straight, chin held high like she was off to take tea with the queen rather than fleeing an uncomfortable conversation.
The door didn’t slam. She passed straight through it.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“That was weird,” Charlie said finally, still holding my hand.
“That was weird,” I agreed.
Just like earlier that day, his thumb brushed across my knuckles, probably subconsciously. A miraculous rush of heat bloomed in my ice-cold chest. Focus, Bat, focus. My catastrophic crush was getting more distracting by the second.