Chapter Five
Darcy
New management,” the man behind the desk says. “No rooms available.”
He reaches up and raps his knuckles against the hand-painted wood sign above him. no vacancy is written in neat, white letters. “Sorry, darlin’.”
He doesn’t sound very sorry. In fact, he’s barely made eye contact since I came in through the front door of this sprawling bed-and-breakfast about a block and a half away from the bar.
All I can see of his face is the curve of a strong jaw and dark brown hair, curling just behind his ear.
His long legs are propped up on the desk in front of him, crossed at the ankle.
Mud on the bottom of his boots and a book in his lap.
I readjust my messenger bag and slip my fingers in the front flap, feeling for the folded-up piece of paper. I breathe a sigh of relief when I touch it. I guess not everything has gone to shit. “Do you know if there is anything else nearby?”
“Nope.” He drags out the word and turns another page in his book.
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t.
I stand there on the other side of the small reception desk and wait, my magic buzzing.
I clench my hands, but it doesn’t do any good.
My magic pops out of me like a champagne cork, agitated because I’m agitated.
It would seem I’ve reached my limit of rude, mediocre men for the day.
Before I can come up with a reasonable excuse for the flames at the edges of my fingers, the man behind the desk looks up.
His eyes flick from my hands to my face, and then he sets his book to the side.
“Well, now. You didn’t say you were a spirit.
” He lowers his voice to a rough whisper, his accent thick like honey.
He flicks his fingers at me, and the flames on the end of mine extinguish.
His magic feels like the brush of an old sweater.
Not exactly comfortable, but not unfamiliar either. He grins. “You from the department?”
I manage a jerky nod.
He presses his palm over his chest, smoothing it down the line of buttons on the front of his shirt.
He’s handsome, in a rough-and-tumble sort of way.
The type of good-looking that comes from sun and sweat and hard work.
He looks like he could chase me down, truss me up, and toss me over his shoulder.
He settles back into his chair, lazy limbed.
“This changes things,” he says.
“How so?” It is taking every ounce of my control not to let my magic slip again. I’m usually a lot more controlled than this, but … extenuating circumstances. I brush my braid back behind my shoulders. “Is there a room for me or not?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Still nothin’ available. The new owner is”—he sucks in a deep breath through his nose and rolls his eyes to the ceiling—“well, she’s a right pain in my ass. She wants everything done a specific way. No new tenants until everything is just so.”
“God forbid,” I deadpan. “A woman knows what she wants.”
“It’s not the knowing that’s grating on my last nerve, that’s for sure.
” He scratches roughly at the back of his head.
“She’s putting me through my paces, is all I’m saying.
Do you know she’s tried to exorcise me seven times?
And when that didn’t work, she started giving me tasks.
Mend the post. Mow the lawn. Man the desk.
A constant fucking headache since she came here. ”
“Which office are you from?”
“Poltergeists,” he answers, distracted.
That explains the mischief, then. And the way this conversation seemingly has no end in sight.
“How many spirits are in this damned town?”
First Gabriel. Now this. Typically, when I’m on assignment, I don’t see anyone else from the department. When you’re forced to hover at the edges of someone else’s existence, you can’t exactly maintain a social calendar.
The stranger behind the desk gives me a bored look. “Annapolis was founded in 1649 by a bunch of Puritans, honey. Pretty sure there are more spirits than mortals at this point.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” The headache behind my eyes spreads, pushing up and out until I swear I can feel the ghost of my heartbeat in the palms of my hands. “I just need somewhere to stay while I’m assigned here. It doesn’t need to be fancy.”
The man behind the desk drags his fingers through his hair, his smile hitching up higher on one side than the other. “No problem, sugar. You do a little something for me, and I’ll do a little something for you.”
“Which is what?”
I’m in desperate need of some mortal comforts. A glass of wine. An extra thick down-filled comforter. That television show where they have the contestants talk to each other through those weird pods. If I need to grease the palm of a mischievous spirit to get my way, I’ll do it.
I’ve done worse for less.
He leans closer, his palms flat on the desk.
“I’m bound to this place. I can’t leave these four walls unless she lights her damn incense and sends me spinning through the stratosphere.
” He swallows heavily, his eyes losing their mirth.
There’s only desperation now, with a touch of madness.
“I’m losing my mind here. I’m not meant to be contained.
I need space. I need the big blue sky above me. Do you understand?”
Not really, but I want a room for the night.
“Do you need a—I don’t know. Do you need a skylight?”
He leans back with a huff, scribbling something down across a notepad. He rips off the piece of paper, folds it up, and slides it across the desktop. “Next time you’re in the department, give this to Siobhan.”
I hesitate. “Siobhan?”
“She oversees the Poltergeist department. She’s been ignoring my messages for the better part of a decade.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I take the paper and start to lift the edge, but his hand snaps over the counter, his fingers curled around mine, keeping it closed.
“It’s a private message,” he says.
My fingers flex beneath his grip. “I won’t be roped into interdepartmental politics.”
Each office in the department operates under their own sets of rules and restrictions.
While Poltergeists are bound to the place they haunt, Reapers can roam at will.
Mortals might be able to sense our presence when they interact with us, but it’s often clouded by their own instincts.
Spirits are easily forgotten. Their memories fade with time until there is nothing left of us at all.
“No politics. Just a little note to my supervisor explaining my circumstances.” He gives me a devastatingly slow smile, one that I’m sure has landed him in more than his fair share of trouble. “Siobhan and I have had some difficulty … connecting lately. I’d like a word.”
“Fine.” I pull my hand out of his grip and shove the note in my bag. “Can I have a room key now?”
Pleased with himself, he reclaims his chair. He picks up his book from the floor and flips back to the place he was.
“Oh, shoot. I forgot to mention.” Another self-satisfied smirk. “The room is … offsite.”
The room isn’t a room at all but a town house seven blocks away, nestled in the middle of a crooked cobblestone street.
Unfortunately, the building itself looks one step away from being condemned.
One of the shutters is hanging crooked. The small balcony on the second floor is missing its railing.
The windows are boarded up, and over-grown weeds reach through the patchwork floorboards of the front porch.
I bet there’s not a single claw-foot tub inside this ramshackle building.
Or if there is, it’s probably filled with …
spiders. Hazard-ous materials. The blood of virgins.
I gingerly press my fingertips against the curved gate at the entrance to the yard and one of the iron posts falls off, clanging loudly against the cement.
I wince, then quickly glance over my shoulder.
The street is empty. Not another soul—living or dead—in sight.
This place belongs to a Ghost of Christmas Past, the man at the inn had said. He’s out of town on sabbatical. It can be yours until he gets back. No one will bother you.
Looking at this house, I firmly believe that no one will bother me. It’s barely tolerating gravity.
Still, though. If it was previously inhabited by a Ghost of Christmas Past, it should be at least somewhat cozy inside. Maybe he left candy canes. Or some of those twinkly lights. A nice, welcoming fireplace to curl up in front of.
Considering my only other option is drifting around until Gabriel decides to become more proactive in his desire to force me out of town, I can’t exactly be choosy. I’ll have to deal with my less-than-ideal accommodations. At least for tonight.
You’re a Reaper, I remind myself. You can handle a few cobwebs.
The first porch step creaks under my boot. The second one groans.
It’s an orchestra of Scooby-Doo sounds that would make me laugh if I wasn’t so concerned about the structural integrity of the foundation. I reach for the brass doorknob, and then I hear it.
A different sort of sound. Low and keening, coming from the direction of the alley. I pause and listen, holding myself still. Somewhere down the road, car tires bump against the cobblestone. Water laps at the edge of the docks and—
Once more. A whine. Something soft and … hurt.
I retrace my path to the gate that never closed right, walking along the perimeter to the narrow alleyway between the townhomes.
It’s darker back here, the settling twilight painting everything purple and black.
I have to climb over a rolled rug and a stack of broken boxes, but it’s not hard to miss the massive ball of brown and black fur.
He’s huddled against the brick wall, his body unnaturally still save for the quick rise and fall of his chest.
“Oh,” I mutter, my hands already reaching. “Sweet thing. What have you done to yourself?”
The German shepherd lifts his head, a short growl of warning rumbling in his chest. I ease down to my knees.
“It’s all right.” I hold my palm out, inching closer.