Page 60 of Dead Serious Case 4 Professor Prometheus Plume

He reaches out and pulls me against him, wrapping me up in his warm embrace, and presses his forehead to mine.

“Don’t ever change, Tris.” He smiles and brushes his lips over mine. Even though his lips are cold and so is the tip of his nose, the kiss is soft and gentle and filled with affection.

“My knees are cold,” I mutter as he pulls back and looks into my eyes.

“So are mine.” He chuckles again as he reaches up and cups my jaw. The soft wool of his glove warms my chilled skin. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I reply as his expression turn more serious.

“Tris.” He sucks in a sharp breath, and I wonder if his knee is on a rock or something. “Will you–”

“OH MY GOD!” I yell. “She’s got a bloody shotgun!”

Without thinking, Danny tackles me to the ground and rolls me under him protectively as he looks around. “Where? Who?” He frowns in confusion, clearly seeing no one threatening.

I scramble out from under him and climb to my feet, hurrying across the lawn to where Bertie strides confidently across the frosted grass.

Still wearing her tweed plus twos and jacket, she’s now added a deerstalker hat over her wild grey hair, and she has a very large double-barrelled shotgun propped against her shoulder.

“Bertie?” I catch up with her. “What on earth are you doing with that?”

“Shooting,” she says as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

“Shooting what?” I look around us quickly. As far as I can see, there’s nothing except the lawn that’s the size of a football field.

“Balls.” She grabs the shotgun with both hands, checking it over thoroughly. “Roger, at the ready!”

The small tennis instructor appears not far off, still wearing his tiny shorts and polo shirt with his sweater knotted around his neck. It makes me shiver to see his bare arms and legs in this weather, even though he clearly can’t feel the cold. He shoots Bertie a mock salute with the tennis racket he’s holding in one hand. In his other, he holds a tennis ball. He tosses it up and down experimentally a few times, catching it in his palm each time.

“What’s going on?” Danny catches up with me.

“Bertie’s got a gun.”

“Bertie? The ghost?” He frowns. “Does it really matter?” He wrinkles his nose. “Surely she can’t hurt anyone?”

“What’s that?” Bertie turns to us and the gun accidentally goes off. The shot rings through the air, followed by the sound of smashing glass and a car alarm ringing out. “Oops, sorry,” she yells. “My fault, wasn’t paying attention.”

“What was that?” Danny’s eyes widen.

“That was Bertie’s gun accidentally going off. Still think they’re harmless?” I ask Danny.

“I really hope that wasn’t my car,” he mutters.

“Roger!” Bertie bellows, raising the gun and peering down the sight with one eye. “Serve!”

Roger proceeds to toss the tennis ball in the air and then crack it hard with his racket in a serve not even Serena Williams could’ve pulled off. It shoots through the air, way higher and faster than should be possible.

Bertie tracks it with the gun and then fires. I watch as the ball explodes mid-air.

“Fifteen-love!” Roger calls out happily and dances over to where Danny and I are standing. “Well, hello, handsome!” He smiles at Danny.

“He can’t see you,” I tell him and Roger’s face falls.

“Oh,” he pouts. “It’s just you, is it?”

“Afraid so.”

“Roger!” Bertie yells, and he backs up from us, pulling another ball from the pocket of his impossibly tiny shorts and serving it with the velocity of a missile. Another shot from Bertie, who doesn’t seem to need to reload the shotgun—which is mildly terrifying—and the ball explodes.