Hellsinger 01 - Fish and Ghosts (P) (MM) (6 page)

There was a lot of it.

And they were all of monsters.

Arranged more like a collection of large family portraits on a long wall, the pieces varied in size and style, but the content was consistently fantastical. A demon bunny with black wings and a katana held a small rodent, his fierce visage thoughtful as he listened to the creature, while next to him, a Wild Hunt poured out of books and decks of cards, engaged in a ferocious battle with a host of banshee and merrow. Some pieces were contemplative art, portraits, or a single study, while others were fully realized scenes. All were matted in hues to match the pieces’ colors and enclosed in black steel frames.

But still… monsters.

“Fuck me.” Wolf stole Gidget’s favorite curse. “You really
are
Thursday Addams.”

Somewhere in the apartment, the Gorillaz sang about a green world, and Wolf headed down a hall leading to the front of the house. The suite was enormous, taking up the entire length of the wing opposite the Hellsingers’ guest rooms.

Unsure on where to find the Grange’s owner, Wolf let the music and the smell of a good dark roast lead him on.

Tristan Pryce was sprawled back in a papasan chair, his slender, long legs folded up and crossed in front of him. Angled so he and the chair were diagonal to the window, the late afternoon light lingered over sheets of blank paper spread out on a low drafting table in front of him, its buttery glow turning Tristan’s hair wheaten and gold. The man held a steaming mug, his index finger tapping at the cup’s side while he stared out one of the room’s arched windows. A ratty gray T-shirt hung on Tristan’s torso, its folds swaddling his belly. His feet were bare, and his knees poked out from holes in his jeans. More white patches and threads dotted the denim, and from the distracted way Tristan plucked at a spot on his thigh, Wolf had a good idea how the holes got there.

The man was more Byron than brawler, so very much
not
Wolf’s type, but his dick had other ideas. It stirred and thickened, his balls tightening up into the hollow of his thighs, and he stopped at the doorway, tugging at his crotch to give himself some relief.

Of course, that was the exact moment Tristan Pryce sensed someone else was in the room and turned around to look over his shoulder, catching Wolf in midsquirm.

He played it off. He’d had years of faking things. He could even be smooth at it, despite what his mother thought. Clearing his throat, Wolf held up the mug he’d brought from downstairs.

“Can I steal a cup of coffee?” He dangled the cup from his index finger, swinging it gently.

Tristan jerked his chin toward a sleek stainless steel coffeemaker sitting on a built-in counter, its glass carafe nearly full of a dark brew. The appliance was much more modern than the old, beat-up plastic model in the kitchenette, and from the array of sugar and individual creamers on the counter, a central piece to his owner’s life. Wolf had to step over a large mound of brindle and gray fur to get to the coffeepot, and the dog grumbled good-naturedly, huffing out its massive jowls as he patted his head.

“Who’s this?” He scritched the wolfhound’s ears. The dog’s back legs thumped in time to Wolf’s ministrations, and he sighed contentedly when Wolf tugged gently at his ruff.

“That’s Boris the Cowardly. If you want, there’s crème brûlée creamer in the fridge.” Tristan pointed toward a large cabinet next to the coffeemaker. “Top shelf inside the door.”

“Thanks,” Wolf murmured, crossing the room. His cock was doubling as a dowser, and Tristan seemed to be its idea of an artesian well, because he could have sworn its head remained firmly fixed on the blond as he fixed himself a cup.

“How did you know I had coffee up here?”

“Mara told me,” he answered, stirring in a tablespoon of sugar. Debating the creamer, he opened the fridge, snagged the bottle, and popped it open to sniff at it.

“Mara?” The man sounded surprised, and Wolf glanced at him, curious. “Mara told you I was up here? With coffee?”

“Yeah, she was downstairs when I came out of the ballroom.” He added a small dollop of the creamer, then put it back, stirring the coffee until it was blended. The room was furnished much like the front space, and he sat down on a puffy red couch near Tristan’s papasan chair. “I was looking around for you, and she told me you were up here. The coffee was a bonus. I was about to hunt down the kitchens and see what I could find there.”

“Huh.” Tristan made a face Wolf couldn’t quite identify. “Okay, then.”

There were more monsters on the walls of what looked like Tristan’s studio. Unlike the formality of the living room’s art, the pieces on the studio’s walls were sketches and character studies, mostly taped to the wall near Tristan’s work space. A few finished pieces were hung opposite the windows, a lineup of fierce and cuddly creatures smiling out from their frames like grade school photos of the damned.

Wolf needed something to fidget with, anything to take his mind off of the man’s chameleon-shifting gaze and his boneless, sexy sprawl. Spotting a red bouncy ball on a table next to the couch, he was about to pick it up when Tristan’s curt voice stopped him.

“Don’t. Once you pick it up, he’ll never leave you alone,” Tristan warned. “You’ll be finding that ball in your bathtub if you’re not careful.”

“It’s kind of too small for him.” Wolf palmed the ball, checking its girth. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll swallow it?”

“Boris isn’t the one you’ve got to worry about. Just… put it down.”

Placing the ball back, Wolf looked around him. A sheep-warthog mutant plushie sat on the couch with Wolf, and he grabbed it, examining its bristly fuchsia fur tipped with orchid and the bright-blue horns that wrapped down around its plump cheeks. A pair of gold hoops dangled from the toy’s left ear, and white tusks poked out from around its sliver of a mouth. Its yellow glass eyes stared malevolently back at Wolf from under coarse, beetled brows.

“That’s Vernon,” Tristan commented softly.

“Vernon?” Wolf tucked the… thing… back into its spot.

“He’s Carl’s monster.” The man returned to tapping his mug.

“He?” Wolf eyed the stuffed creature. “He looks kind of… frilly?”

“It’s his curse, or so he thinks.” Something in the blond’s changeable eyes told Wolf he was being judged and had not passed. “He’s a boy monster with pink-and-purple fur, so he doesn’t think he’ll be a good imaginary friend for Carl because of how he looks. In their book, Vernon needs to understand he can be whoever he wants to be, as long as he’s a good monster. That’s all Carl needs, for his monster to be a solid, kind friend.”

“So does he?” The judging eased, lightening the dark gold in Tristan’s eyes to a sparkling amber. “Learn, I mean.”

“After a bit.” Tristan turned in his chair, fully facing Wolf. “But I don’t think you came up here to talk about my monsters.”

“I needed to talk to you about my team setting up cameras in the house. No nails or anything. Nothing mounted someplace we can’t take off without damaging anything.” Wolf explained how the pressure mounts would work in a corner of a hallway or room. “We want to have a good sweep of the place so we can record activity as we go along.”

“Sure.” Tristan nodded slowly. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Anything else? Did you get settled into your rooms?”

“Yeah, Mara took me to them.” Wolf caught the semiamused crease on Tristan’s forehead. “She doesn’t normally show people where they’re sleeping? She’s the housekeeper, right? She’s staff, yeah?”

“Of sorts,” Tristan murmured softly. “She doesn’t really have anything to do with the guests, living or otherwise. Mara’s more of a legacy employee. She was here with my Uncle Mortimer, and when he passed, she stayed on with me. It’s her home as much as it is mine. There’s a cleaning staff that takes care of most of the house, but she goes through and changes the sheets after a guest leaves.”

“Even if they’re… not real?” Wolf needled, wanting to see the man’s reaction.

“Just because you’re incorporeal, doesn’t mean you want to sleep in another person’s sheets,” Tristan replied. “Usually Mara toddles around the Grange in the morning, then goes back to the carriage house to relax. Sometimes, if she’s feeling bossy, she comes back over here to tell me it’s time to cook dinner.”

“She’s not the cook?” If ever he needed to retire and still pull an income, it looked like being Hoxne Grange’s housekeeper was the way to go. “Your aunt said we didn’t have to worry about meals, but if I’ve got to get some food for my crew, let me know. I’ll head back into the city.”

“Trust me….” Tristan’s sudden laughter was a bubbling wave of glee. “You do
not
want Mara cooking for us. She is disastrous in the kitchen. No, I’ll cook. There’s enough in the walk-in and fridge downstairs for a couple of days, but I put in an order. Groceries will be delivered tomorrow morning when the house staff is in. I don’t mind cooking, but I hate putting stuff away.”

Wolf smirked teasingly. “Lord of the manor and all that?”

“Only about putting away groceries.” Tristan cocked his head. “And dusting. Oh, and lawn work. I leave that stuff to the professionals. Cooking, I can do. Any allergies? So I don’t kill anyone you might need.”

“I don’t think so.” Wolf turned his cup around in his hands. “Since I’m up here, mind if I ask you a few questions about the place? To get some background?”

“What kind of questions?” Any camaraderie they’d built up turned to ash under Tristan’s hard, suspicious glare. “If I’m on medication? The answer to that is no.”

“Actually, I was wondering how you got to be the Grange’s owner instead of your Uncle Walter. Your aunt seemed to think it should have gone to him. Being the family house and everything. How do you feel about that?”

“She wouldn’t last a day at the Grange,” Tristan snorted. “Uncle Mortimer gave it to me because he knew I’d take care of it. Ashley would tear out the gardens and put in a tennis court or something.”

“And that would be bad.”

“Horribly bad.” The blond raked his fingers through his hair, mussing its golden threads back into the darker strands. “Whether she… or you… believes it, Hoxne Grange
is
a farewell point for passing spirits. It’s a final respite before they leave this world. Ashley would do enough damage to the Grange that she’d drive the ghosts off, maybe even trapping some forever. Uncle Mortimer would die all over again if that were to happen. I’m not going to let the Grange die because of someone’s greed. It has a
purpose
. I’m merely its caretaker.”

“You said three days. So they… the ghosts… stay for three days, and then what? Walk into the light?” Wolf wasn’t sure what amazed him more, the monsters all over the walls or the man’s delusional state. “Head to heaven. How do you know it’s not hell?”

“God’s a parent. What loving parent would create a place of eternal torment for their children?” Tristan shot back. Shifting in his chair, he freed his feet from underneath him and wiggled his toes. A silver ring encircled the fourth toe on his left foot, the metal gleaming as Tristan moved about. “And yeah, walk into… peace, I guess. I think that’s the better word for it. Uncle Mortimer called it heaven, but I don’t know. The Grange attracts all kinds, all religions. I don’t want to put a name on what the souls find so long as they find some peace there.”

“Very modern of you. So the Grange is very in tune with the changing times.”

“The spirits who come here are from different eras.” Tristan spoke carefully, as if teaching someone too slow to grasp a simple concept. “Heather, the cook, comes every Tuesday. She’s probably from around the late nineteenth century. I think she died on the way to a lord’s house to ask about a position there. My Uncle Mortimer thought maybe someone killed her because the lord got her pregnant, but we’ll never really know.”

“She breaks the three-day rule.”

“She does. I don’t know why. I wonder sometimes, but maybe because she’ll never find peace? While she’s here, she’s happy, so maybe Hoxne Grange
is
her peace,” Tristan murmured. “I talk to her sometimes. Heather likes visiting with the guests, and they all like her. She’s quite nice and doesn’t seem to mind when a Hindi merchant asks for something other than beef.”

“But everyone else moves on?” Wolf wished he’d brought a recorder with him or even a pad to make notes on. “Have you seen one? Move on, I mean?”

“The guests do, yes. Cook’s not a guest, maybe?” The blond shifted again, silver winking seductively from his foot. “And yeah, I’ve seen a few walk across the pond and disappear into the fog. I don’t know where they go from there.”

“How do you know when they’ve been… checked out?”

“Their names are crossed off on the registry, and Mara finds their rooms slept in but empty. Sometimes they leave something behind.”

“And always on the third day?” Wolf made a mental note to research journey myths. If Tristan spent a lot of time with his Uncle Mortimer, the older man might have influenced his nephew’s beliefs to include something tangible Wolf could disprove.

“Always.” Tristan nodded. “Fish and guests stink after three days. I guess the same goes for ghosts.”

“So what happens to the place when
you
go?” Wolf put down his cup, shifting closer to the edge of the couch. “Are you hoping to pass Hoxne Grange to one of your kids? How do you know who should get this place next? How did Mortimer know it was you he needed here?”

“Because I’ve been seeing the Grange’s guests ever since I was a kid.”

The smile was back on Tristan’s face, but it was wistful, hinting at a sadness inside of him. He looked vulnerable, malleable enough to fold into Wolf’s arms and let himself be driven senseless with hot kisses and exploratory fingers. Wolf pulled his thoughts away from the image of Tristan’s pale body spread out over his room’s dark-red duvet, his jeans raked down over his hips and his bared nipples a dark blush from Wolf’s teeth. No, lusting after the crazy man living at Hoxne Grange wasn’t what he needed in his life. Not by a long shot. Especially since the man obviously needed to secure himself a legacy of spawnlets in order for his delusions to survive his own death.