“Why would he miss his own party?” Oliver asked, looking to Thomas for help.
“Because Dash is suggesting we threaten to banish Gary,” Thomas said. “Or at least bind him somewhere he can’t make trouble.”
“Banish him?” Oliver looked horrified as he stared at Dash. “Why would you do that?”
Slate hadn’t said it out loud, but he’d thought the same thing. “We don’t want to banish him—or anyone—but we can’t let him bring unwanted attention to the town.”
“Surely you can see the trauma he’s suffered,” Oliver pleaded. “It would be awful to keep him from his own party or worse.”
Faced with two difficult choices, Slate had to weigh the cost of one man’s pain against the needs of hundreds. “Gary’s trauma doesn’t give him the right to selfishly endanger the portal just to throw a party.”
“He’s not being selfish. This party is for everyone,” Oliver said.
The suggestion they might banish Gary had distressed Oliver. Slate understood—banishment wasn’t crossing over. Spirits forced to leave didn’t get the peaceful crossing to a place of rest. He didn’t know for sure, but he suspected it was as close to Hell as he wanted to get.
“Yes it is,” Liv said. “Ezra Reeves gave up his life for this portal. Esmerelda Blackwood spent her life and afterlife to make it a reality. Slate and Dash nearly died to create it. Dozens of spirits have used it to cross over. Gary’s desire to throw the ultimate Halloween Party is the definition of selfish if it jeopardizes those sacrifices.”
“Maybe he’ll be as understanding as the other ghosts,” Dash suggested. “I mean, you convinced dozens to tone it down when people were around. Why not ask Gary to do the same?”
Thomas and Oliver exchanged looks, and from the way Thomas’s expression changed, they were clearly communicating mentally. Finally, he nodded and Oliver’s lips twitched as if holding in a smile.
“We’ll talk to him,” Thomas said. “But I don’t think he’ll listen.”
Chapter Six
Slate finished putting the crackers on the cheese board and set it next to the small plates. He was glad Dash’s grandparents were coming. With his decades of work at the ERP, Morten Reeves knew more about ghosts than anyone. Something told Slate they might need all that knowledge before the holiday was over.
The door from the basement opened, and Dash stepped into the kitchen with soda and water. “Grandma texted. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Dash put the drinks in the refrigerator and then came over to kiss Slate’s cheek. “That looks nice.” He tried to take a slice of cheese, but Slate smacked his hand lightly.
“You can wait until they get here,” Slate said. “Do you need me to do anything to get the guest room ready?”
“Nope.” He grabbed the open box of crackers and took a few. “I changed the sheets, put out two sets of towels, dusted and vacuumed, and made sure the bathroom was clean and had enough toilet paper.”
The last item was Dash being Dash. “Thank God for that. We don’t want your grandparents running around asking if we can spare a square.”
Dash rolled his eyes and opened the cabinet with wine glasses. “I got a merlot for Grandma and a chardonnay for Grandpa. Did you want me to open anything else for you?”
He didn’t like either vintage, so he’d stick to beer. “No. Two bottles will be more than enough.”
They finished setting up, and Dash poured them some water. He took a drink and leaned against the counter, his face already wearing an expression that was equal parts affection and mild anxiety.
“You need to relax.” Slate kissed Dash’s cheek. “They’ve visited before, and they won’t inspect the house.”
“It’s not that.” Dash ran a hand through his already messy hair. “I should be better at seeing them and Grandpa Herbert. Not to sound fatalistic, but after losing Grandma Joyce so suddenly, I promised myself I wouldn’t let too much time pass between visits. I’m doing a terrible job keeping that promise. My grandparents had to invite themselves over for the weekend. I kinda suck at this whole grandson thing.”
Slate set his glass down and hugged Dash. He knew how important Dash’s grandparents had been after the clusterfuck his parents made of his childhood. “Cut yourself some slack. You call Grandpa H almost every week. You’ve driven to see him three times this year, and he stayed with us last month to go apple picking. We spend major holidays with Morten and Millicent, and I hear the joy in your voice every time you speak to them. You’re a good grandson, Dash.”
The knock on the front door cut off Dash’s response. “That wasn’t ten minutes,” Dash said, pushing off the counter.
They walked to the door together, but Dash reached it first. He was already smiling when he pulled it open. “Grandpa, Grandma, I?—”
He stopped completely, his hand still on the doorknob, his entire body going still in a way Slate had never seen. Mortenstood on the porch, tall and solid in a wool coat despite the mild October weather. Millicent was beside him, her white hair caught up in a neat bun. And between them, half-hidden until she stepped forward, was a woman Slate had only seen in photos and video chats.
Dark hair, Dash’s jawline, blue eyes that held the same intelligence but softened by something warmer. She wore a leather jacket over a flannel shirt, jeans, and boots that looked like they’d seen actual use. Her grin was immediate and delighted.
“Surprise, Doc.”
