I opened my mouth, ready to explain that the air in Nova Scotia was cold because it wasinNova Scotia, when movement on the opposite side of the pit caught my eye. I glanced up as the tingling traveled up my arms toward my shoulders, fully expecting to see some loose corner of tarp fluttering in the wind—though there was no wind blowing at the moment. And no sound at all.
Instead, I found a man standing in front of the pit, staring down at us both with the most peculiar expression of longing. He wore faded, tattered coveralls and a pair of black work boots, both of which completely were outdated in style. By nearly a century.
He wore no coat, yet he showed no sign that he felt the cold. No chill bumps. No red cheeks. No dripping nose. And something about him seemed…wrong. Somehow out of place. Or out oftime, maybe…?
“What are you looking at?” Bowman asked, following my line of sight. His gaze must have passed right over the man, but he obviously registered nothing but snow and ice.
“He can’t see me, darlin’,” the odd man said, his country accent completely out of place in eastern Canada. “Can’t hear me neither.”
“I’ll bedamned.” The tingling in my arms was worse now, though it had settled on the surface of my skin, like pins and needles. Or a mild electrical current. And that was when I realized I could actually seethroughhim, if I squinted a little.
Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut until he disappeared completely, along with everything else. What the hell was going on?
A wraith.
Suddenly I understood: I’d just seen my first ghost.
NINE
“Ms. Walker? You okay?” Bowman asked.
I opened my eyes to find him watching me, his forehead furrowed into four distinct lines. “Yeah. I just…thought I saw something...” I groaned inwardly at how that sounded. Like I was hallucinating—without the benefit of drugs or alcohol. And really, where’s the fun in that?
“Well, you wouldn’t be the first. People have been reporting weird sights and sounds around here for two centuries. I have to say, though, that I didn’t expect you to buy into any of that. You don’t look like the superstitious type.”
Yeah, well, I didn’t look much like thedeadtype either, so…
The foreman kept talking, but I hardly heard a word. I couldn’t drag my gaze from the wraith standing over his shoulder, his expression a mixture of amusement and wistful longing.
He must have died here. My curiosity was suddenly overtaken by sympathy for the lost soul; I knew what it was like to be stuck.
Still, I was no expert on wraiths. In fact, until a couple of years ago, what I knew about them wouldn’t have filled a Dixie cup, but thanks to a recent fling with a massively self-involved psychopomp—a spirit guide—I knew enough to understand what I was dealing with.
Wraiths are the earth-bound spirits of the deceased—usually murder victims. At death, most spirits cross over on their own. But something about the way murder victims die, particularly those who die a violent death, leaves their spirits confused and disoriented in the afterlife. They don’t know what’s happened to them, or where they are. They have to be escorted to…wherever they belong. Like the Von Trap children being led off to bed, only without the song and dance.
However, the wraith staring at me over Bowman’s shoulder didn’t seem very disoriented. In fact, he seemed calmer and more in-the-know thanIfelt at the moment.
Standing, I brushed wet clumps of snow from my jeans, trying to decide what to do next. Which of the men to address first. What on earth to say.
“You best speak, before he thinks you’ve lost your mind.”
I straightened to find the spirit smiling at me, mirth sparkling in his too-real brown eyes. “Maybe I have,” I mumbled, fighting an overwhelming urge to reach out for him, to see what he felt like. If I could feel him at all.
To my knowledge, I’d never seen a wraith before, but considering how very real this one looked—how solid andsubstantialhe seemed—I suddenly wondered if I’d seen others over the years and never even realized it. I’d had no idea a wraith could look so normal, other than the out-of-date clothing, which wouldn’t have been an issue with the recently deceased.
“I’m sorry?” Bowman’s voice broke through my thoughts, and I forced my focus from the loitering spirit to look at him. His brow furrowed even deeper.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” I glanced at the wraith again, then back to the project foreman. “Mr. Bowman, do you have anything to drink in your truck?” I swallowed thickly for effect. “I could really use a drink.”Of whiskey.
“No, but I keep a mini fridge in my office. Why don’t you come in and warm up while I make some coffee?”
Warmth and coffee both sounded wonderful; I was so cold I could barely think.
The wraith shook his head at me, seemingly disappointed. Maybe he couldn’t wander that far from the pit. Some wraiths—haunters—couldn’t leave the sites of their death.
“Thanks,” I said to Bowman, trying not to stare at our less corporeal companion. “But I’m going to stay and look around a little more.” I crossed my arms over my chest, hunching my shoulders against the cold. “Could you bring me a cup?”
“Sure. Be right back.”
