The Bone Orchard (8 page)

“The horn.”

Ezra barked a laugh, covering his mouth and looking around like he was scandalized.

“I think I’m following,” Ambrose said with a heavy scowl. “I got all het up, and I could move stuff.”

Ezra eyed him askance but nodded. “Yes. Jennings isn’t stronger than you, Ambrose. He’s angrier. He’s more emotional, and his emotions are baser instincts than yours. Murder and mayhem, greed and lust.”

“So you’re saying since I’m a good person, I make a shoddy ghost?”

Ezra fought a smile and merely shrugged. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s not real nice.”

Ezra laughed softly. “Apologies.”

“If you’re right, I’m going to need to get all fired up to be able to fight him.”

“Essentially, yes. I’m . . . I’m not sure, though. I could be wrong.”

“Are you ever?”

“Rarely.” Ezra stopped and turned to face him. The moonlight glinted off the glass of his spectacles. “I shouldn’t like to be wrong about this, though. Not when it’s you . . .”

“Hey, I’m already dead. I ain’t risking anything here.”

The gallows loomed in the distance, outlined in the dull light of the moon. Ambrose hesitated, and Ezra did as well, watching him silently.

“You should hang back,” Ambrose finally said. “You can’t see him, but he can sure as hell see you.”

Ezra cocked his head and smiled faintly. “That makes perfect sense.”

Ambrose raised both eyebrows, leaning closer. “It does?”

Ezra nodded. “I’m of no use to you since I can neither see nor touch him. I would only serve as a distraction to you and a danger to myself. I’ll hang back.”

“You will?” Ambrose asked, his voice wavering. “I expected you to fight me on it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. ’Cause you’re stubborn.”

“I only fight the battles worth winning,” Ezra said with a crooked smile. “And fighting with you is not something I ever intend to do.”

A motion behind Ezra drew Ambrose’s eyes, and he was barely able to shout before the specter of Boone Jennings appeared from the shadows. His bulging red eyes were on fire with bloodlust and rage, and his teeth were bared in a hateful, maniacal grin. Ambrose cried out, reaching for Ezra, but Jennings was upon him before either of them could move.

The knife Jennings wielded was very real, obviously stolen from some passerby and retained through Jennings’s sheer joy of murder. It sank deep into Ezra’s back as Jennings gripped him. Ezra didn’t scream or shout, but rather released a single breath from his lungs. His beautiful brown eyes went glassy even as Ambrose pounced on them both.

He knocked Jennings to the ground, and they rolled through the dust, fighting and clawing, cursing and shouting. Ambrose landed a punch that, to his horror and disgust, knocked one of Jennings’s bulging eyes right out of its socket. Jennings cursed at him and scrambled through the dust for it, grabbing it up. He spit on it and shoved it back in, rolling it around until it’d settled in place. Then he glared crookedly at Ambrose before taking a step back and disappearing into the night.

“Ezra?”

Ezra groaned in protest at the gentle voice ringing through his ears.

“Ezra, wake up.”

His eyes fluttered open to a light far too bright, and he quickly squeezed them closed again. A callused hand rested against his cheek, gentle and warm.

“Wake up, partner. Don’t leave me just yet.”

Ezra finally recognized the owner of those whispered words, and he groaned again, fighting past the blinding light to open his eyes. He was in their room at the Continental, sprawled in the middle of the bed. Ambrose was sitting on the edge of the bed, and a portly man who was quite obviously a medical doctor was bustling around behind him. A time or two he actually walked through Ambrose because Ambrose refused to leave Ezra’s side, merely shivering when he did so and continuing on with what he was doing. Two constables stood near the door, watching silently.

“Howdy, Inspector,” Ambrose said, his voice rumbling.

“Hi,” Ezra gasped. It was hard to speak. He remembered the knife plunging in, remembered Ambrose leaping to his rescue. He began to tremble at the memory, the feeling of the blade near his spine, the terror in Ambrose’s eyes as he shouted his warning. He looked into Ambrose’s clear blue eyes and worked to push himself up. He didn’t care if the constables thought he was crazy when he spoke. “You saved me.”

Ambrose held his gaze for a few seconds before lowering his head as if ashamed. “No,” he whispered, “I didn’t.”

He gripped Ezra’s forearm tightly, helping him to sit up. Ezra stared at their clasped hands. Ambrose was solid and warm against him, his grip strong.

Ezra’s heart dropped. He twisted to look over his shoulder at the bed behind him, but Ambrose moved quickly and caught Ezra’s chin in his palm.

“Don’t look.” They locked eyes again. Fear skittered through Ezra’s entire body, but Ambrose tried to smile for him. He shook his head, his fingers brushing Ezra’s cheek. “Just don’t look.”

Breathing became harder. A white-hot pain started in his back and grew excruciating as it seared its way through his lungs and up into his throat. He squeezed his eyes closed against the panic, pain, and terror, and Ambrose’s hand slipped away.

He was still grasping for Ambrose when the hard ground seemed to rush up to meet him, and he landed on his back with a pained gasp. It took him long minutes to open his eyes, and when he did, he was staring into the gentle pink and star-speckled blue of the early morning. He could hear laughter not far off, the chilling, evil laughter from the night before, just after Ambrose had shot Boone Jennings.

He was in the street, the shadow of the gallows not far off. This was where Jennings had attacked them, where he’d been stabbed.

“Am I dead?” Ezra said out loud.

He glanced around the street, watching as merchants prepared their storefronts, as sleepy horses plodded along and wagons creaked toward the docks. No one paid him any mind even when he shouted at them.

He finally flopped his hands to his sides. “I’m dead. Well, shit.”

It took Ezra a long time to make his way back to the Continental Hotel. He’d been tempted to march straight to the gallows and kick Boone Jennings in his manhood, but he’d had an even greater need to get back to Ambrose, to let him know he hadn’t left him.

Walking through the streets, though, was like wading upstream through a creek. The further he got from the spot on the street where his blood still stained the dirt, the more exhausted he became. Had Ambrose fought this same level of exhaustion, walking with him all around town? Surely not, or Ambrose would have shown signs of fatigue. Perhaps it got easier to move around the longer someone was dead. Ezra certainly hoped so.

He finally came within sight of the Continental, and he stood staring at it in triumph, chest heaving as if air still moved through his lungs. A haughty little woman with a lace parasol was coming toward him, and he tipped his hat to her. But she didn’t react to him, didn’t slow her determined pace or sidestep him. She stamped right through him, making his head ache, his stomach lurch, and causing the world to spin in dizzying circles. He squeezed his eyes closed to combat the feeling, and when he opened them again, he was in the middle of the street, staring at the sky, the gallows not far off.

It felt like hours before he could convince himself to sit up. This was really happening to him. No one could see him. He was a ghost. Dead. He was . . . He now understood even more clearly why Ambrose had asked for his help when he’d` realized Ezra could see him. He had to get to Ambrose. To face this reality alone would be terrifying.

When he finally reached the doors of the Continental Hotel, he stared morosely at their imposing heft. He remembered the look on Ambrose’s face when he’d claimed doors were heavy, and Ezra now understand the air of defeat and sadness he’d carried with him.

Something so unassuming as a door could keep him from a loved one simply because he couldn’t push it open.

“Ezra!”

Ezra glanced around the sidewalk, frowning. Who would be able to see him? Who would even know him in this town?

“Ezra! The door!” Ezra peered through the lead glass window when he heard banging. Ambrose was standing on the other side, his face wavering in a haunting manner in the uneven glass.

Ezra bolted forward, pressing his hand against the window.

“Are you okay?” Ambrose shouted.

Ezra nodded, then changed his mind and shook his head. “I’m so tired.”

“It’ll wear off,” Ambrose promised. He placed his hand on the other side of the glass, their fingers aligning. “Go wait by the door. When it opens, you get your spurs on, understand?”

Ezra nodded, and then Ambrose was gone. Ezra made his way to the doors, dodging passersby who didn’t see him, desperately trying to avoid being walked through again.

He loitered for several minutes, and finally someone opened the door, standing aside to hold it for his female companion. Ezra rushed inside, brushing past the woman and knocking her hat askew.

“Sorry,” he said to her in passing.

She held to her hat, glancing around with a confused frown.

“She can’t hear you,” Ambrose told him with a melancholy smile.

Ezra stopped short and stared. Ambrose seemed different somehow. His complexion was ruddier. Healthier. His hair was more reddish blond than silver blond, and his icy eyes were actually a blue as brilliant as sapphire. He grinned, and the laugh lines and crow’s feet around his mouth and eyes crinkled.

“My God,” Ezra breathed. “You are a beautiful sight.”

Ambrose stepped closer and drew Ezra into a tight hug. Ezra let out a sigh of relief and damn near giddiness. Ambrose was warm against him. Warm and solid. “Oh my God.”

Ambrose buried his face in Ezra’s neck. “I’m right happy you stayed.”

Ezra huffed and held Ambrose tighter. “I wouldn’t have dared leave you behind.” He pulled back and grabbed Ambrose’s face, kissing him delightedly.

It was one thing being able to kiss the man without the sting of that cold on his lips, to hold him close without the ever-present worry of his impending disappearance from his arms. But it was an entirely different feeling to be able to embrace him in the midst of a busy hotel, steps from a rowdy saloon, and not fear the evil, ostracizing looks people might give them.

They kissed passionately, wrapping around each other. No one could see them. They could stand here and do this all day. Well, unless someone walked through them, which would take things to a whole new level of unpleasantness.

Ambrose broke the kiss, still grinning as he stepped back. “They’ve cleared out the room. All your possessions were sent by rail back east to your brother.”

Ezra scowled. “That was fast.”

“Ezra . . . it took you three days to get here.”

“Three . . .
days
? Good God! Has anyone else been killed?”

Ambrose nodded, his smile fading. “I heard talk in the saloon. Two members of the jury been murdered in gruesome ways, both in saloons around town. I worked it out that Jennings can’t go too far from the gallows, so those folks who stay away, they’re safe. Until he gets stronger, that is. I reckon we have some time now if we intend to stop him. He’s done killed everyone he can.”

Ezra swiped a hand over his mouth, nodding. “Well. The good news, I suppose, is there are now two of us. We can overpower him.”

Ambrose grinned again. “That we can.” He paused and looked Ezra up and down, narrowing his eyes like he might when examining a horse for purchase.

Ezra actually felt himself blushing. “What?”

“I think you could stand a few rounds of sparring first.”

“Sparring? You think you need to teach me to fight?” Ezra asked, incredulous until he saw the shimmering glint of mischief in Ambrose’s eyes. “Oh. Oh!
Sparring
.”

Ambrose clucked his tongue and took Ezra’s hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed Ezra’s fingers. “Call me a selfish bastard. But I think it’s our first order of business. Until you’re accustomed to being a ghost, that is.”

“You won’t find me arguing that.”

“I know a nice private room upstairs. Won’t no one rent it since the last two guests died up there.”