Page 107 of Hot Ghost Summer

“He won’t,” I state, lacing my tone with menacing intent.

“What do you mean?” Theo’s eyes widen as he looks up at me.

“It means I speak his language. My family is old money too, so I know where he’ll keep his accounts and understand exactly how to apply pressure. From tomorrow, Clawson and Stoker won’t bother you—either of you—again.” As I make that vow, a chilling serenity fills me.

Theo, studying my face closely, bites his lip, and as if perhaps I can read his mind after all, I smirk. Later, Baby. Let me make sure you and everyone you care about are safe first.

Jayne also assesses me, scrutinising the cut of my tailored dress shirt and woollen slacks, before she comes to some internal conclusion. “Then I think it’s best if perhaps I don’t know any more.”

As if signalling the end of the conversation, but more likely because no more apple chunks are forthcoming, Brigid ambles away, leaving us surrounded only by Bowen’s ghost herd. Slowly, we follow, and they walk with us.

“Do you think it means anything that they didn’t move on when he did?” Theo asks, happy to change the subject, it seems.

“No, I don’t think so.” I pause, looking over their hazy forms. They’re low level—barely a two. “Their death cycle is broken now, and they seem happy here.”

“Why do you think they haven’t?”

“Moved on?” I clarify.

Theo nods but keeps his focus on them as he ruffles the little tufts of hair between their ears.

“Probably, they’d like some more of this.” I motion to the affection he’s bestowing on them. “It’s what I would hang around for, even if I didn’t realise that’s what I was doing at first.”

He turns his face my way, just enough for me to see the blush that fills his freckled cheeks. I give him a pointed look. You, Baby, I’d stay for you.

thirty-three

Blood Money

Hollis

The dry spit of static breaks the quiet night, tinging the air with the sharp smell of hot wires and dust. A sickly green-white hue flares too bright as the filament in the streetlight snaps and then stutters out. Thick and absolute, the darkness that swallows Stoker’s house arrives in silence and heralds his demise.

I can feel Theo’s biorhythms through our shared bond—through the part of me that’s spliced into his soul. He’s sleeping peacefully in his bed where I left him, and like the steady tick of a clock, his heart beats out the cold control of my dark desire.

The flickering red LED on the security camera that overlooks the large metal gates of the Stoker residence won’t detect me, which means neither will it save him. In a sudden bloom of blinding violet light, I arc the short distance from the blown-out streetlight to the electric motor that controls the gate. An aggressive buzz and a thin curl of grey smoke emanate from the terminal block as the wires fuse and choke in ash.

Moonlight cuts through the tall trees that line the driveway, and in the far distance is a weak porch light that barely reaches the gravel. It’s here that I manifest as a quiet threat.

Allowing just enough of my shape to solidify that he’ll see me approach, but not enough that he can distinguish my features, I remain a phantom. A lone figure whose footsteps echo from everywhere and nowhere, whose impossibly long shadow leaves a predatory wake, and whose faint breathing hides beneath a layer of white noise that rattles the window glass.

His doorbell gives a single chime before Stoker’s barked words are pushed out through tight teeth. “Who are you? You’re trespassing, whoever you are. Leave, or I’ll call the police!”

Dropping low, I let my face fill his screen. The reflection of my lucent white eyes is clear in the doorbell’s domed lens, and I freeze the security footage on that frame.

“What—what are you?” he stutters.

Smiling, I touch my finger to the lens and crystalline ice webs outward. I laugh then, from my hollow chest, and the sound chills the surrounding air.

“I’ve called the police,” he threatens, his forced composure coming at the expense of his strained vocal cords.

But I’m already inside his house, already building a perfect three-dimensional render, and already watching him… like I once watched Theo. Only this time, my hate is real.

Despite the late hour, he still occupies the plush leather seat in his downstairs office. A patterned tie strangles him about the neck, pinching skin that has long lost its elasticity, and his thinning hair reflects the cool glow from the computer screens in front of him. His small eyes dart over every shadow in the room, and frantic fingers tap out his fear on his desk, but he doesn’t know true fear… not yet.

So, this is the great and powerful Stoker. The man who caused my death—who would have caused Theo’s death.

“You owe me a debt, Vollkoffer,” I type on his keyboard, my hands unseen.