Hellsinger 01 - Fish and Ghosts (P) (MM) (5 page)

He’d never really understood the attraction to the bad-boy type until Wolf Kincaid darkened his foyer. The jeans worn low on his hips were so thin in places, Tristan had no trouble seeing the man’s thick thigh muscles moving below an enticing, heavy swoop slung to the left of Kincaid’s fly. His dark-brown hair was probably more in need of a cut than Tristan’s, something he’d not thought possible since he frequently forgot about the blond mess until he discovered he really couldn’t see out of it anymore. On himself, it looked like a game of monotone Pick-Up Sticks gone wrong. On Wolf Kincaid, the rumpled strands made it appear he’d just rolled out of bed after a long night of steamy sex and oiled fingers.

Running away was the only option, but Tristan stayed as long as he could, gripping the edge of the reception desk so he wouldn’t climb over the counter, wrap his legs around Kincaid’s, and beg the man to split apart his virgin body with anything Wolf wanted to use on him.

“So they’re here for a week, then?” Mara shot him a look that Tristan would feel burning into him long after he was put to the ground. He’d known Mara since before he could walk, and there were times when he was certain she could see right into his thoughts and pluck out his deepest shames.

Especially since his mind wandered over to the thought of Wolf’s tongue and wondered how it would feel down the length of his spine. Blushing furiously, Tristan nodded. He was still angry at the quacks on his doorstep and even more pissed off at his uncle, but they’d left him alone for far too long. Uncle Mortimer had warned him that the family would try to meddle. He’d just hoped they would wait until he was long dead before they stuck their noses into something they didn’t understand.

“Kincaid said Monday, but you know these kinds of people.” He slumped down into the soft confines of a floral loveseat. Hellsinger Investigations wasn’t the first ghost-sniffing curiosity they’d had come ’round, but they certainly were the only one sent by his own family. “They get one whiff of the Grange and we have to toss them out on their asses. Maybe I should get Dobermans. Big, trained, vicious Dobermans. That only speak German. And bite scientists.”

“They’d be a damned sight better than that hairy slug you’ve got by your feet.” Mara snorted as Boris rumbled and flipped over, his rear leg sticking straight up in the air. “He’d sooner bite his own tongue in his sleep than defend you.”

“Yeah, but I got him for companionship,” Tristan murmured, scratching the dog’s ruffled belly with his bare toes. “I’d want the Dobermans to eat people.”

“That kind of talk will land you in the crazy house for sure.” Her fingers flew through a length of yarn, her metallic knitting needles winking at Tristan as she dove and wove the thread into something he’d never get to wear. “So should I poison them? Bad shellfish? Sour pork?”

“No, someone else will just take their place.” His groan matched the dog’s. “The damned doctor is good-looking too. Because I needed
that
.”

“Language, dear.” Mara corrected softly. “If you’re going to swear, make it worth your while.”

“Sorry, that fucking doctor,” Tristan murmured.

“Better. Lacks the punch of a good curse, but you don’t really have it in you.” She sighed, tucking her knitting into her lap. “Have you ever thought that maybe you should go and have some fun in the city? Maybe find someone to help you here?”

“Right, because someone who can see and talk to ghosts is out there looking for a day job.” He got his pinky toe stuck in a gnarl on Boris’s flank, and Tristan spent a few moments untangling himself. “Hell, can you imagine what would have happened to me if Uncle M hadn’t taken me in? I’d be drooling in a corner and weaving baskets out of my own leg hair.”

“I’ve seen your legs, dearie.” Mara glanced pointedly at Tristan’s shins. “You’re as bald as a baby bird. Have you gotten any tingles from the doctor? Does he… how do they say it? Pitch your cricket?”

“I think it’s bat for my team. I’m not even sure if ‘pitching my cricket’ is a thing.” He had to think about it, then decided he was right. “I don’t
feel
the gay. Shit, I barely can tell
I’m
gay. How the hell am I supposed to figure out if someone else is? There should be a handshake or something. Worst fucking club ever.”

“Better use of profanity.” She nodded approvingly. “Very natural. Now, talk to me about the doctor and why he makes you pink up like a spanked piglet.”

Chapter 3

H
OXNE
G
RANGE
was a bowl of supercharged Rice Krispies someone poured Pop Rocks on top of, then set the whole thing on fire.

As soon as Gidget plugged in their first electromagnetic reader, it lit up and sang “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” then broke out into a cover of Sugarhill’s “Rapper’s Delight” as imagined by R2-D2.

And that was only the least sensitive of their equipment.

“Fuck me.” It was rare Gidget was left speechless, but that tiny whimper of profanity took her nearly a minute to work out of her mouth. “I mean, really… fuck me.”

More surprisingly was Matt’s lack of his standard comeback:
I do
. Instead, Hellsinger’s cameraman stood at the bank of unlit panels and monitors, his mouth slack and motionless as their EM began to pop off with another long litany of squeaks and squeals.

“Did you drop it?” Wolf pulled out the device’s charger and reset the scanner. The EM did a repeat performance, and if it had chosen at that precise moment to get up and dance across the table singing “Hello My Baby,” Wolf would not have been surprised.

“Did you really just ask me if I dropped a piece of equipment?” Gidget’s pineapple earrings chimed their own angry dance as her head jerked around so she could glare at him. “Really? Out of
your
mouth?”

“I dropped
one
mobile EM reader, and you give me shit about it for the next ten years?” He lifted himself over one of the wide banquet tables they’d pulled over to the ballroom wall and began to fiddle with connectors.

“You lobbed it into the Mississippi.” She sneered at Wolf before sliding under the table to plug in another surge protector.

“It caught on
fire
. Do you remember that?” he replied, peering down at the space between the table and the wall at his tech below.

“That’s because you told that poltergeist to quit fucking around and come out,” Matt interjected. “And that someone must have gotten it wrong about him being a war hero because he was the biggest pussy you’d ever seen.”

“Alleged poltergeist,” Wolf grumbled back.

“The EM reader caught.
On
.
Fire
.” Matt began to unpack his camera case, arranging the cables he’d need on one of the smaller tables nearby. “I’m pretty sure one day you’re going to get us killed.”

Gidget’s voice rose up from under the table. “Just make sure we’re married first so I can collect the life insurance.”

“Ghosts… if they exist… cannot kill you.” Wolf found the end of a power cord and plugged in their main spectral analysis machine. Luckily, since he was stretched out over its main chassis, it did not begin singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” “See? This one’s fine. Something’s got to be wrong—”

“It’s not turned on,” Matthew said, reaching under Wolf’s belly to flick the machine’s switch. The machine flared on, and while it wasn’t exactly a battle hymn, it was close enough Wolf suspected a flight of winged women to swoop down on them. “Yep, apparently that one’s broken too. Well, it’s a really nice house, pity we’ve got to go.”

“I’m not taking a damned step out of this place until I use up all of the bath salts and soak in the tub we’ve got upstairs.” Gidget pushed herself out from under the table and dusted off her cargo pants. “Okay. Light us up, babe.”

Matt ran his hands over the bank of equipment, turning knobs and pushing buttons until the console ran hot with green and red lights. The monitors flared blue, flickering white noise across their screens as the data streams began to feed into their displays. One by one, each device powered up, scanning their immediate surroundings and processing the variations against the control equations Wolf had programmed in.

The cacophony was enough to drive them all back a step, and Gidget’s inventive profanity was buried beneath a rapid crescendo from one of the night-vision goggles on the table as it overloaded. The whine grew louder. Then the goggles popped, showering sparks over the table and onto the ballroom’s marble floor. Smoke seeped out from under a misting shield, curling in a little plume followed by the eruption of a tiny flame, its fire spreading quickly to swallow up the goggles.

They all dove for one of their fire extinguishers, and Gidget came up with the nozzle primed, unloading a swath of suppressant over the engulfed goggles. The fire died with a sizzling whimper, and she laid down another spray over the goggle’s remains before poking at the smoldering pile of plastic and electronics with a pencil she’d had tucked behind her ear.

“Fuck. Me.” Gidget shook her head, continuing her litany.

“Tell me about it.” Matt wiped at the sweat on his brow with a packing towel. “Imagine what would have happened if I’d actually turned
that
one on?”

I
T
TOOK
Wolf nearly half an hour to hunt down the Grange’s owner. It should have been a fairly easy thing to do, but in the echoing boom of the empty mansion, Wolf found himself backtracking through a warren of rooms on the first and second floors with a side trip back to the ballroom when he thought he heard someone calling his name.

And found Matt and Gidget sprawled over one of the banquet tables, half-naked but fully aroused.

“Jesus!” He turned around, blocking his eyes. A scurry of sounds, swearing, and shuffling went on behind him, but Wolf didn’t dare look. “I
don’t
need to see that.”

“What the hell did you come back here for?” Gidget admonished him. From the sounds of things, someone was hopping around, either trying to put pants back on or looking for a shoe. “You’re supposed to be gone. Like…
gone
!”

“Doesn’t look gone,” Matt muttered from somewhere behind Wolf. “Looks like he’s standing in the doorway like he’s my mom or something.”

“Look, just… get the equipment set up, and I’ll see if I can find Thursday Addams,” Wolf grimaced when he heard more thumps. “And you two… try to
not
get us kicked out of this place.”

Stalking out of the ballroom, Wolf turned a corner and nearly slammed into Mara. Skidding back a step, he pulled up short, and his heart began to thunder along with the beeping machines he’d left behind in the ballroom.

“Shit!” Wolf rubbed at his face, telling his heart to get a grip on itself. “Sorry. I’m… you scared the heck out of me.”

“Don’t apologize for your profanity, Dr. Kincaid.” Mara pursed her lips in disapproval. “If the situation calls for a heartfelt curse, then so be it. I’m not some shrinking violet quivering because a man used a bad word. Now, is there something I can help you with? Or are you merely wandering around the Grange to get a feel for the old place?”

“I was looking for Pryce.” His heart settled down. “I was hoping to get permission to set up cameras to record activity. Maybe get some history out of him. Unless you’d like to do that.”

“You will definitely need to talk to him about the cameras. And as for Hoxne Grange’s history, I’m sure you’re referring to its more ethereal guests. You will
definitely
need to discuss that with Tristan. I have no opinion on the matter.” She studied him, and Wolf shuffled his feet, feeling like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Just head up to the third floor and take a right instead of a left. You’ll find him in his studio. He’s just taken up some coffee. I’m sure he wouldn’t begrudge you a cup if you take one up with you. There’s some on the sideboard there.”

“Thanks, Mara,” he said softly. “I appreciate you looking after us.”

Her loafers squeaked a little, and Wolf watched the woman disappear into the shadowy hall as she headed to the back of the house. After grabbing a heavy white coffee cup from a sideboard’s tray, Wolf bounded up the stairs, intent on finding the blond, who’d left him nearly as unsettled as his house.

Unlike the wing Wolf shared with his two technicians, Tristan’s wing was shut off by a solid oak door with a discreet engraved plaque informing a potential trespasser they were about to tread into someone’s private space. Knocking might not get him past the door, not given the look Pryce gave him the last time he saw the man.

“Try the knob or knock?” Wolf put his hand on knob, then realized the door was partially open. “Okay, so that was easy enough. Onward to find Don Quixote.”

This particular wing of Hoxne Grange was definitely set up for Tristan Pryce’s tastes. Once past the foyer, Wolf found himself in the apartment’s living space, and he took a moment to get a feel for the man he’d come to see. With not an antique in sight, the furnishings ran to more modern lines, clean Mission-style pieces with comfortable, bright cushions and soft, filmy curtains covering the building’s long windows. Nearly every wall boasted at least two bookshelves filled with a curious blend of literature and photo books. It was a lived-in space, nothing like the polished staidness of the house beyond the apartment’s front door, but it was the art on the walls that gave Wolf pause.