He followed Ruby and Alan into the mansion and found himself in a large, lightly furnished room awash in colored light filtering down from two gigantic Tiffany stained-glass windows. The effect was modified somewhat by the sound of someone in the heights of the building swearing like a sailor.
Alan and Ruby exchanged a look. Alan said, “Someone needs to keep Terry from killing Peg. If you two will excuse me?” He didn’t wait for a reply before running lightly up the stairs.
Ruby watched Alan leave as if he were a life buoy sliding out of her reach. Asil’s wolf wanted to go grab Alan and stand him back beside Ruby so she wouldn’t be unhappy—but, and this was the amazing part, did not make any move to make that happen.
When Alan disappeared above them, Ruby swallowed. Then she turned to Asil with a bright-fake smile. “Okay, Mr. Moreno—”
“Asil,” he told her silkily. “Please.”
“Asil,” she said without dropping her smile a single watt or making it a degree more real. “Every ghost hunting team I’ve ever spoken to has a routine they follow when they are looking for hauntings. We start with a walk-through—”
“For psychic impressions,” Asil said, not quite interrupting her, but disturbing her rhythm, pushing at her in a way not quite flirtatious. But not quite not flirtatious, either.
She gave him a wary look. “Yes.” At least the plastic had gone out of her expression.
“I’m not a psychic,” he told her.
“No,” she agreed dryly, “it wasn’t on your profile.”
He almost grinned at the bite in her voice.Thereshe was—the real person beneath the mask and the roil of fear and uncertainty.
“I cannot apologize for the profile,” he said, a purr in his voice that caused a flush of something she almost controlled. “I didn’t write it.”
Arousal, his wolf assured him.The binding spell she wears sometimes hides things from our sense of smell, but look at the darkening of her eyes and the warmth of her skin.
If the ground had rolled under his feet, he would not havebeen more startled than he was at hearing his wolf speak to him. He hadn’t spoken to his wolf this way since his wife had last walked beside him. The only other werewolf he knew who spoke to his wolf like this was Charles—one of the myriad of things that made Asil dislike Charles. He was not above admitting to jealousy.
Ruby drew in a deep breath. “Alan’s wife and I did a walk-through on this place a couple of weeks ago when the owners first asked us for help.”
She paused as if she were waiting for him to throw her off her game again. But he was too busy trying to regroup. He let her proceed unhindered, even though it irritated him when she dropped back behind the safety of her tour-guide mask again.
“We aren’t proper psychics. I’m not even sure what makes a ‘proper psychic’ anyway,” she said. “Though I wouldn’t admit that in front of another ghost hunting group on pain of death. Miranda is a witch—a white witch, but powerful enough for her kind.”
She didn’t, he noticed—though he was still half-distracted—say what she brought to the table. The fae were a varied group—and the half-fae were even more so. That her powers were wrapped up so tight meant all she’d have to work with was what managed to escape.
“We also come prepared with the history of the house,” she continued briskly. “Some of that we get from the owners, but we do record searches, too. Mostly we don’t find anything too useful that isn’t already well-known to the owners. A complete history with names and dates isn’t necessary to help the spirits anyway.”
“Help them?” he asked.
“That’s what we do,” she said. “Help trapped spirits.”
Because you can’t free yourself, he thought with sudden understanding as to why she would feel driven to take up such a hobby. But he didn’t say that aloud.
She waited expectantly, but when he kept silent she shrugged and led him into a smaller room off of the entry room.
“This house was built in 1898 and was restored in the eighties by the grandmother of the current owner. There are plans to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast, but those plans are on hold until they can deal with a restless spirit or two. This is the reception room—where the original owner, one Eben Mercanter Benson, welcomed important guests.”
Asil looked around the octagonal room. It was a fine example of its type—a room designed to impress guests with the wealth and power of the homeowner. He counted six kinds of wood in the ornate floor, and the oak fireplace mantel made seven. Arching high ceilings were adorned with painted Italianate scenes. The fireplace had been converted to gas sometime in the fairly distant past but still had the original surround.
He touched a sparrow carved into the corner of the mantelpiece with a little smile—it was a charming creature.
Our kind of space, said his wolf.Beautiful and skillfully wrought—as we are.
Asil thought a question at his wolf—a wordless, infinite question encompassing the utter strangeness of speaking to each other once again, the change from broken beast to coherent thought. What had changed?
I don’t know, the wolf answered.But it has something to do with her.
Asil realized abruptly that Ruby had quit talking and turned his gaze from the sparrow. She was watching him with an odd look in her eyes. He gathered together the things she had been saying and came up with a cogent question.
