Hellsinger 01 - Fish and Ghosts (P) (MM) (4 page)

“James Rhodes?” He spelled out the last name, and that mouth turned wicked with a knowing smile. “We’ll just say that’s right, then. Where are you from?”

The man’s head tilted, spilling out golden strands over his shoulder. Wolf cleared his throat, and the blond ignored him, pretending to listen intently to the space in front of him. Gidget came up behind Wolf, either bored or curious about the man talking to himself.

“What’s he doing?” she whispered into Wolf’s ear.

“I have no fucking clue,” he admitted softly. “I think he’s pretending to check someone in. It
is
an inn after all.”

“So should I unload the stuff, or we’re just calling it a crazy and heading home?”

“Unload.” Wolf jerked his chin toward the owner. “He’s wrapping that up, by the sounds of it. Supposedly, Mrs. Walter called ahead. Let’s see if she’s made this easier or harder for us.”

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Rhodes. Dinner will be served tonight promptly at seven in the large hall, and there should be dancing in the ballroom later. Your room is on the second floor to the right.” The man closed the large book he’d been writing in and motioned to a birdcage elevator set between the two staircases leading up to the second floor. “If you need anything, please let me know, and welcome to Hoxne Grange.”

Wolf strode across the lobby floor toward the blond, squaring his shoulders as he went. From the jut of the other man’s jaw, Wolf knew he was going to be in for a battle, and the growl that greeted him did nothing to persuade him otherwise.

“I was with a guest.” His raspy purr wasn’t an affectation. Something gritty curled through the man’s voice, turning it smoky and sensual. “I take it you are from the society my uncle’s wife spoke about.”

“Dr. Wolf Kincaid.” Wolf didn’t hold out his hand. The man didn’t seem to expect it because he placed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I take it you’re Tristan Pryce?”

“I am,” he replied smoothly. “No doctor or anything. I barely got out of high school alive. Well, since you’re here, I guess I better find someplace for you and your team to sleep. Just the three of you?”

“Yeah.” Wolf made a show of looking around. “Not many people here.”

“The Grange is nearly full. I wish you’d called before you headed over here. I would have told you we’re low on space. Uncle Walter was
supposed
to tell you to call ahead.”

The man barely glanced up at Wolf as he opened the register again, flipping through the pages. Its yellowed sheets were covered with names and addresses, with room numbers and dates filling in three right-hand columns. From what Wolf could see, the Grange got a lot of guests, although how much of it was real was anyone’s guess. Nearly two-thirds in, Tristan stopped and studied the book, comparing its ledger to a floor layout he pulled out from under the countertop.

“I really only have a couple of rooms left, and they’re on the small side. Two of you will have to double up.” Pryce reached behind him, drawing out two vintage keys on leather fobs, and held them out for Wolf to take. “They’re on the third floor. Please keep in mind that the door marked Do Not Enter means you and your staff are not allowed past that point. Those are my personal quarters. Mara—the housekeeper—lives in the carriage house, so don’t wander over there. The servant quarters behind the kitchen belong to Cook, so I’ll kindly ask you to please respect her privacy during your stay. Most of the hotel visitors won’t notice you, but if you hear any noises or music, please keep in mind that they are the Grange’s guests. Some will be leaving us in a day or so. If you plan to be here longer than a few days, I can move you to a larger room, but chances are, you’ll be shuffled back to the third floor if someone else checks in. Do you understand me, Dr. Kincaid?”

“Third floor, doubling up. Your space is off limits. Mara is the housekeeper, and Cook lives behind the kitchens,” Wolf repeated as he took the keys. “Dinner’s at seven in the large dining room, and we’re not to disturb your… guests. Spectral or otherwise. Providing, of course, you
have
otherwise.”

“I know my aunt has probably told you I’m insane, but the Grange
is
… well, it is what it is. Yes, we sometimes have the living come here, but mostly our clientele are spirits about to leave this earth. I make no apologies for what I do or how the Grange works.” Pryce shrugged, dismissing Mrs. Walter’s accusation with a feline elegance Wolf couldn’t pull off if he’d been possessed by Pussy Galore. “If you have an issue with that, the door is right behind you, Dr. Kincaid.”

“No, no issue at all,” Wolf replied. “You know your aunt and uncle sent me to document the Grange’s… purpose.”

“They want me locked up someplace that serves me strawberry Jell-O and pudding, and they hope your report will help them buckle me into a wraparound jacket. I’m not stupid, Dr. Kincaid.” The green in his eyes turned emerald, and the air around Wolf grew icy cold. “
Or
crazy.”

“We’ll need someplace to set up.” Wolf held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not taking sides here, Pryce. If there’s paranormal activity here, then yes, I want to document it. If there isn’t, then that’s what I’ll report to you and your relatives. Either way, my team and I are here as observers. Nothing more.”

“You can set up in the ballroom.” Pryce slapped a copy of the floor layout on the counter, sliding the paper toward Wolf. “Under the musicians’ shell. There is power there for your equipment. It’s either that or the basement, but that sometimes floods. I don’t think you want to set up anything that plugs in down there since we’re expecting storms.”

“Ballroom should be fine,” Wolf replied as Tristan was about to turn away. “Pryce, if you didn’t want us here, why did you agree to it?”

“Because my family wouldn’t leave me alone until I did
something
to make them shut up.” Pryce’s mouth relaxed, plumping out his lower lip, and his shoulders lowered slightly. “So you are the result.”

“I promise, we’ll try not to get in your way. It’s what? Friday? We should be out of your hair… maybe Monday at the latest.”

“I’m not worried about you getting in my way.” The corner of Pryce’s mouth lifted, quirking a dimple in his cheek. “Piss any of the guests off and they’ll let you know about it. Oh, and one more thing, Dr. Kincaid.”

“Yeah?” Wolf raised his eyebrows.

“Dining in the hall is only for spectral guests. Cook will be providing their meal, and I don’t think you’ll get much to eat there.” Pryce turned around, tossing a wave over his shoulder. “You and your team will be having supper with me in the Blue Room. I’ll tell you when it’s ready. Usually after Mara’s done bitching me out about needing more clean linens.”

W
OLF
WAS
surprised to find a curvy, matronly woman dressed in a gray servant’s uniform waiting for them at the landing to the third floor. Her slightly rounded face was creased with only the faintest of crow’s feet, but age lurked in her steady storm-gray gaze. A whiff of silvery-white hair curled up from her forehead, and her hands were where her years sat, knuckles thickened from hard work, her fingers callused and rough. A single gold band sat on her thumb, its width much too clunky for a woman, and he spied the flattened portion of a signet stamp at the curve of the joint. Sensible loafers covered her feet, and the dress’s stark gray was broken up by a broad swath of white ribbon around her waist with a thinner trim of the same white satin at her collar and sleeves. Her hands were clasped in front, and from the looks of her, she appeared to have settled in patiently, waiting for him to arrive.

“You must be Mara.” He smiled as charmingly as he could at the woman. Honey was tastier than vinegar, his mother often said, but personally he thought vinegar had more use. It cut through honey and washed away its cloying sweetness better than anything he knew. “I’m Wolf. I’m heading the team that’s staying here.”

“Aye, he told me.” Her cunning gaze flicked to the empty birdcage cab behind him. “He told me there were more than one of you. Are the others still downstairs?”

“Yep. They’re setting up our equipment.” He kept up the charm, although the woman certainly didn’t appear to be swayed by it. No nonsense and firm, Wolf guessed Mara the housekeeper was Tristan Pryce’s fierce gatekeeper and would put up with no bullshit from anyone who crossed her path. Lugging out the suitcases Gidget brought with her, he hefted them to the side, then grabbed his duffel.

“Give me the fobs. I’ll take you to your rooms.” He held them out, and she examined the room numbers stamped into their surface. “Ah, the sheets are fresh in there. I changed them a day ago, but you’ll be needing more towels. Most of the rooms up here are used for storage, but Tristan has his suite and studio up here on the right wing. You’ll be across on the left wing. He told you two of you will probably have to double up.”

“That’s fine.” Wolf hurriedly grabbed a couple of the suitcases, abandoning the others for another trip, as Mara turned around and trod away on silent loafers to the left wing. “Gidget and Matt are… engaged.”

“We’ll put them in the bigger room, then.”

The woman was nearly a foot shorter than him, but her pace left Wolf nearly panting. He felt like a water buffalo fumbling behind her elegant glide, with Gidget’s hard-bodied suitcases rattling and bumping into nearly everything along the hall. He’d nearly taken out a slender-legged half-moon table with a pink hatbox and then almost irreparably damaged a full-length Victorian mirror as he turned quickly about to steady the rocking table. The hallway was narrower than the ones downstairs, and Wolf surmised the third floor had once been servants’ quarters, something quickly confirmed by Mara’s curt nod.

“There’s not much of an attic, and that’s mostly filled with old furniture. We keep these rooms for last-minute guests, really. These used to be smaller, but the late Mr. Pryce removed many of the walls to open up the space. They have their own washrooms, so you’ll not be having to share with each other.”

The long hallway of the wing’s L boasted only four doors, two set near the juncture of the wing to the main part of the house and two farther down. One of the tall arched windows Wolf had seen from the outside let a wash of pale afternoon light into the hallway, bringing up the gold thread in the cabbage rose runner under his feet. Motioning to the nearer doors, Mara said, “Those are for storage. Mostly linens. If you find yourself needing something, please help yourself. If you want fresh towels, put the used in the hamper, and I’ll replace them when I make the beds in the morning.”

“You don’t need to wait on us,” Wolf said softly. “We’re here to work. We can make our own beds and take down the linens since you’re so busy.”

The woman gave him a look he couldn’t interpret, then fit one of the keys into a lock and opened a door to the right of the hall. Swinging it open, she motioned Wolf to go inside. “If you’re taking the smaller, this is yours, then. It’s facing the side gardens rather than the front lawn, and the bathroom is a mite bigger. Both rooms have only one bed each, but they’re big. It should be tall enough for the likes of you. You won’t be dragging your feet over the edge.”

After depositing the suitcases in front of the other door, Wolf walked into his room, and the love he had for old homes flared up anew.

The Grange’s idea of a smaller room was a far cry from Wolf’s. He’d grown up with a closet space for a bedroom in order to get some privacy, and ever since then, he’d sworn he’d live someplace where he’d have room to spread out his elbows and not hit a wall.

In the supposed smaller room, he was pretty certain he could do a cartwheel or two and still have enough room for a lively jig. An enormous canopy bed took up the far wall, a thick red duvet plumped up to support a bank of feather pillows. The room held two armoires, a sideboard, two wing chairs, and a window-seat nook filled with more pillows. An open door to the right offered him a clear view of a very modern bathroom, but the rest of the furnishings were mellowed from age and polish. A Persian rug was spread out under the furniture, leaving enough space around the edges for the burnished bronze heating vents set into the floor.

It was comforting, inviting, and luxurious.

Wolf began to wonder what he’d have to do to move in.

“Will this do?” Mara’s soft murmur intruded on his room lust. “It’s really all we have left. The other rooms are… occupied.”

Wolf tore himself away from his plotting and crooked an eyebrow at the woman, recalling what he’d come to the Grange to do. “Do you believe that? That this place is a hotel for ghosts?”

“There are too many things in this world that I cannot explain away, Dr. Kincaid,” Mara demurred. “And if Tristan says there are spirits who come here for three days before they go on to their rewards, who are we to say that he is wrong… or crazy.”

“Does he see them? Speak with them?” Wolf frowned, thinking back on the slender, blond man he’d seen downstairs. “When we came in, he was supposedly checking someone in. Am I supposed to believe he was helping someone or just being rude to us because he doesn’t want us here?”

“Well, you’ll believe what you believe. If you are right, then Tristan harms no one. But if you are wrong and his family succeeds in taking the Grange from him, then you’ve helped consign every lost soul he
could
have helped to wander the earth forever.” Mara clasped her hands in front of her again, bringing herself to a stillness Wolf found unnerving. “Now, if that is all, I’m off to my afternoon. We hope you will enjoy your stay here at Hoxne Grange.”

“Y
OU
COULD
have seen them to their rooms, Tristan Pryce,” Mara said as she shuffled into the carriage house’s parlor. “Your uncle would be disappointed in you.”

“I know.” Tristan knew she was right. Uncle Mortimer had been gracious to anyone who crossed over the Grange’s threshold. “I just… he made me angry.”

And since he was being truthful, Tristan also had to admit Dr. Wolf Kincaid stirred up a whole range of emotions and sensations he wasn’t quite ready to deal with. Up until the moment he’d seen the tall, scruffy scientist, his attraction to men had always been theoretical at best. Face-to-face with a square-jawed, laughing blue-eyed man who smelled of sunshine and cherries, all Tristan could think about was the man’s large hands running under his shirt and exploring every inch of his skin.