“Yeah.” If Nigel died and Oscar thought he was trapped on this side of the veil, suffering…it didn’t bear thinking about.
Chris swapped out the battery on their shoulder cam, and the three of them left Tina behind, careful to step over the line of salt at the doorway. They went down the long hall, through the library, and into the night.
Waves sighed gently against the shore, hidden just on the other side of the dunes. Sand engulfed one corner of the veranda, driven up by some past storm. Considering what it had been exposed to over the years, the house was in surprisingly good condition. Did Ullman have something to do with that? Could ghosts even influence such things?
“I’m going to try to sense if any spirits are out here with us,” he said, for the benefit of the camera. He shut his eyes, let himself attune to the sound of the ocean, the touch of the wind, the scent of salt and rot. The stones were solid beneath his feet.
So solid. Unyielding to falling flesh.
He needed to ground himself, not get carried away imagining Robin’s death. He focused less on the stones, more on the earth beneath it. The bones of the world, their strength rising up through him, connecting him to something more.
He turned his attention outward. Nigel and Chris stood nearby, but it wasn’t their energy he was searching for.
“Go away!”
Oscar cried out and clapped his hands over his ears, even though the sound had been inside his own head. A red wave of anger boiled over him. How dare they come here and pry, a man’s entitled to his privacy, meddling bluenoses!
Voices were calling his name, but he ignored them, too busy putting his wards up. In his mind’s eye, his old football gear closed protectively around him, blocking out Ullman’s fury. The sensation dimmed immediately—then began to wane fast as the spirit expended its energy battering against his wards. Then finally silence and calm once again.
He took several deep breaths, then lowered his hands. Nigel gripped one of his arms, eyes wide. “Oscar?”
“I’m fine. Ullman decided to remind me that he really doesn’t want us here.” He sorted through the jumble of impressions he’d received from the ghost. “He’s angry because he thinks we’re prying into his personal business.”
Nigel’s brow crinkled. “Odd. Though I suppose he saw this as his private retreat, where he could…what?”
“Maybe the Pack were a polycule,” Chris suggested. “That would have been a career-ending scandal for all of them.”
“All I know is, he wants us to stop meddling and go away.” A headache started behind his eyes and Oscar put a hand to his temple. “I need some aspirin.”
“Let’s get you some.” Nigel took his elbow and gently steered him in the direction of the French doors. “No sign of Robin, I take it?”
“No, but I doubt I could have sensed her over Ullman. He’s going to be hard to keep out of the seance.”
“You just have to be very clear who you’re inviting to join us.” Nigel’s fingers squeezed his arm. “We’ll stock up on the salt and keep the anti-static wristband ready to use, though. Just in case.”
As they passed inside, Oscar glanced back over his shoulder. The veranda was dark except for starlight, but he thought one of the deeper shadows watched them until they were out of sight.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Nigel took a turn at the monitors with Tina while Oscar and Chris slept. Ullman’s ghost bothered him—the man had taken his life in a fit of despair, so why did he manifest as a force of rage? And what had that been about protecting his private business?
Then again, maybe he hadn’t shot himself out of despair. Unless he’d left a note, how would anyone know? The obvious assumption was that the deaths of his six friends, on top of the death of his daughter, had been too much for him. He’d been the only one of the Pack not on the boat, so add a dollop of survivor’s guilt on top of the grief, and if he was already suffering from depression it seemed logical that he might take an extreme action.
But logic was an infamously poor explanation for human behavior. Perhaps, as Chris suggested, the friends had been engaging in the sort of behavior that would get a man banned from society if it became known.
Maybe they’d have more luck in the cupola. Robin’s ghost could be there. If not, Ullman would have to be dealt with if they wanted to even sense whether she was still here at all.
“That tickles!” the PolterPal yelled through the headphones and directly into his ears.
Nigel jerked, knocking into his coffee mug hard enough to slosh coffee onto the desk. Tina looked at him with round eyes; her headphones were plugged into the receivers from different static cams.
“PolterPal,” he mouthed at her, even as he shoved everything out of the way of the spill. She took off her headphones and made for the kitchen, returning a moment later with a wad of napkins. While they soaked up the spill, the PolterPal giggled, as if pleased to have scared him.
But of course that was ridiculous—the doll was, as he’d told Chris again and again, just a tool. He couldn’t start assigning it agency.
Order restored, he concentrated on the feed from the bedroom cam. It revealed nothing of interest, and the PolterPal fell silent for the rest of night.
