Page 45 of Purrfectly Haunted

I nod, pleased. “I remember.”

God, he’s so...

I move my leg a little, until it rests along his, the warmth from his skin seeping through our clothes. He doesn’t move away, and his eyes meet mine with a knowing look. I’m playing with fire. As if on cue, the next music on my playlist starts, and it’s Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye. My face warms again.

Of all the songs...

“Faites comme si je n’étais pas là,” says someone in French. “Je viens juste me servir un verre.”

My brain snags on the words and translates them after a moment. Pretend I’m not here. I’m just pouring myself a glass. I tense just as a young man with long, auburn hair leans over our table. A third glass has made an appearance, and it appears to be already filled with deep red wine.

The man—ghost—tips his glass up and drinks the phantom wine to the dregs. He giggles drunkenly and says in French again, “Ah, that hits the spot.”

He looks... quite frankly more real than all the ghosts we’ve met in the house so far. Handsome, normal looking if not for his Victorian clothes. The cause of death is unclear, and even Earl Lynch didn’t know, but he died in an opium den a few streets over, so one can take a guess.

The Nobleman refills his drink and sways drunkenly around us, dancing to the tune of Sexual Healing. “Who is this singer?” he asks. “That’s quite good.”

I clear my throat, gathering my courage. “Marvin Gaye. He was an American singer,” I say in French.

James’ eyes snap to me. “You speak French?”

I nod, switching back to English. “My grand-parents are French, on my mother’s side. We spent all our summers in Brittany with my brothers when we were kids.”

“La Bretagne!” the ghost says with a dismissive gesture, spilling phantom wine on the carpet. The red stains glow for a moment before disappearing. “Cow fuckers and fish lovers!” he switches to a heavily accented English. “What wouldn’t I give to see Paris again!” He twirls dramatically, free hand on his forehead in a show of lament.

I’m about to ask him if he wants to be free of this house and finally leave for Paris when he gasps loudly and turns to James.

“Good evening, handsome. Do you come here often?” The Nobleman trails his incorporeal fingertips over his chest, and James recoils and shudders. The ghost pulls back with flourish and wails, “But why does love hate me so?” before falling backwards and disappearing through a wall.

James and I share a bemused glance over the table.

“That was... a lot,” I say with a laugh.

I’m used to being scared of the dead, with their frozen stares, muttered threats, and ghastly wounds. The Nobleman is a nice change for the fearful ghost hunter that I am.

But it looks like James would rather face the Burning Crone again. There is a sour expression on his face, as if he just bit into a juicy lemon.

“I think he’s as high as a kite,” he says.

I open my mouth to say something just as the ghost makes a reappearance, falling directly from the ceiling and spilling phantom wine all over us. For some reason, his clothes have changed and he's now wearing a silk robe revealing his naked chest.

“Is your friend taken?” he asks me in French, pointing at James with a lazy finger.

I blink. “No?”

The ghost grins. “I knew it! I see the way he looks at me...” He tosses his long hair back.

James, in fact, is still looking at him with a sour face.

“You’re out of luck, he doesn’t date,” I continue in French.

The nobleman throws his empty glass over his shoulder and it disappears into thin air before impact. “Date!” he scoffs. “I don’t want a lover, I want a fucker. And it looks like your friend is good at fucking.”

I feel my face warm up, thinking about the other night, when we could have... God, this is getting out of hand.

“What are you talking about?” James asks, confused.

“Nothin’,” I mumble in English. “Just a drunk's ramblings.”