Whereas ancient cultures used simplified spirit catchers, this one ran on serious juice. Electrically charged fibers crisscrossed the inside. These were supposed to draw the spirit into the vessel.
Supposed towas the key word. This spirit catcher was new technology the Ghost Team had been working on before I was suspended.
Yes, I’d been suspended. I’d also discovered my recently deceased adopted father had lied to me for years about Lucky Strike, a big bad spirit who had trouble written all over his face.
My dad had struck a deal with Lucky, promising that if the spirit would unleash havoc in certain places at certain times, then my father would help him cross into the afterlife.
Well, my father never kept his promise. Plus he’d used the threat of Lucky to keep the government flooding money into the Ghost Team. My new saline-boobed boss, Anita Tucker, was in on the whole arrangement.
I’d been lied to. I didn’t appreciate being lied to. It wasn’t exactly at the top of my bucket list.
So anyway, I had theSpiritusand another instrument, a charged lasso that helped hold spirits. I hooked the lasso and the tube onto my utility belt.
“Aw, you look so cute with all that stuff on you.”
I shot Roan a scathing look. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Do you want to call Alice or Ruth?”
We headed up the front steps. The boards nearly screamed under our weight. “No. I don’t want either of them to be hurt. This guy is bad.” I gazed at Roan from the corner of my eye. “I’m not even sure I want you here. You can’t see spirits.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t help.” He reached for the doorknob.
“Let’s hope it’s unlocked.”
It was. The police department really should consider keeping folks’ property safe by locking up after themselves.
We stepped inside. I used the moonlight flowing into the massive windows to flip on a few lamps. “I don’t want it too bright in here.”
Roan whistled. “This place is massive.”
A loud rumble came from upstairs. It sounded like someone had thrown a boulder onto the floor.
Roan craned his neck. “What in the world?”
“It’s him.”
I whirled around. Artie sat on a stool eating grits. “Artie.”
“Who?” Roan’s gaze flickered to me. “Who’s Artie?”
I pointed to the spirit. “That’s Artie.”
Roan nodded. “There’s a spirit sitting there?”
“Yes, he’s eating grits.”
“And he’s eating grits,” Roan repeated.
I fisted my hands to my hips. “Listen, you didn’t have to come with me, you know. You wanted to.”
He raised his palms in surrender. “I know, but I wasn’t about to let you come here all alone.”
“I’m not alone.” I cut my hand to the spirit. “There’s Artie.”
He furrowed his brow. “Really, Blissful. I don’t think a ghost eating grits is much protection against a spirit like the one you explained to me.”
“He’s not. But at least he’s company.” I cocked my chin to Artie. “What’s the big bad mad about?”
