19
M y stomach clenches at his dire words and my heartbeat picks up. “What do you mean?”
“You have got something very, very angry lurking in this building, plus a whole host of ghosts, a ghost-hunting crew, and a group of guests looking to stir up a psychic hornet’s nest with this ghost hunt of yours.”
“Oh, um.” I bite my lip. “Well, the house ghosts are very nice and very benign. Although they do often make very questionable decisions.”
“So Tristan tells me.” Sam’s mouth twitches. “But they’re not the ones that concern me.”
“You’re talking about Lady Clare and the other two,” Morgan says.
“I think you two better tell me what’s been going on here,” Sam says seriously, “because I could feel it the second I walked into the hotel.”
“Feel what?” I ask.
“The fury of the dead. This whole place is chock full of psychic energy, and those angry spirits are feeding off it. My hair is almost standing on end with it right now.”
“I’ve felt that a couple of times since the séance.” I nod. “It’s like static electricity in the air.”
“That’s it, exactly. Only this building, this whole place, is like a powder keg. All it would take is one small spark to set if off,” Sam warns.
Morgan winces. “A spark like a ghost hunt and a room full of ghost hunters with electrically charged equipment?”
“Quite possibly, but to be honest, I really think just about anything could set it off.” Sam scratches the stubble at his jaw, which is scruffy but in a kind of cool, sexy way.
“Okay, Tris gave me a quick rundown before I set off. He said you accidentally woke three ghosts up.”
Morgan and I look at each other and shrug. “We’re not really one hundred percent how it happened, but we know who they are.”
Sam makes a please continue gesture with his hand and folds his arms, then stares at us in expectation. I kinda feel like we’re in trouble.
It’s hot.
“There’s a local legend about one of my ancestors,” Morgan begins. “Lady Clare. The short version is she had a lover and was planning to run away with him. Her father forced her into a marriage for money. The night of the wedding, there was an argument between Lady Clare and her husband. He threw her down the stairs and broke her neck, then made a run for it so he wouldn’t get in trouble. Lady Clare’s lover showed up and murdered the husband and then got killed himself.” Morgan frowns. “Everyone’s a little sketchy on the details. There have been so many versions of the tale over the centuries that no one is sure what happened. Some say her lover killed her husband and then was trampled to death by the husband’s horse. Some say he couldn’t live without his love and took his own life.”
“Either way, you’ve got traumatic death, murder, and possible suicide, any of which can give rise to angry malevolent spirits on their own,” Sam muses.
“It gets worse,” I add.
“How can it get worse that a three-way murderfest?” Sam asks.
“Well, no one ever saw or heard from those ghosts again. Not in the whole three-hundred-odd years since their deaths.”
“If they were angry spirits locked in a death cycle, then they would have been haunting this place from day one,” he explains.
“What’s a death cycle?” Morgan asks.
“When a person dies suddenly in violent or traumatic circumstances, they can become locked in what’s known as a death cycle. It means they are unable to alter how they show themselves, appearing the same way they did at the moment of death—bullet wounds, stab wounds, missing appendages, and quite often wearing the same blood-stained clothes. The only way to break the death cycle is to resolve their unfinished business, which is what Tristan and his spirit guide Dusty do. They help spirits resolve their unfinished business so they can cross into the light and be at peace. Most of the time, despite being locked in a cycle, those spirits can still interact with those around them. Only in the worst cases are they locked into a repetitive set of actions they can’t break at all. You would have thought over the years, there would have been sightings.”
“I think I can answer that.” I hold my hand up. “Our ghosts said that the, um, place in charge of ghosts?—”
“The higher powers?”
“Um, sure.” I blink. “Let’s go with that.” I’m not certain if I’m allowed to talk about the Bureau of Domestic Hauntings, even if it is to someone who knows about ghosts. “Anyway, our ghosts said that the decision was made by the higher-ups to put the ghosts into a kind of sleep? I think. I’m not sure exactly, but it basically meant they were dormant and couldn’t interact with the living or their surroundings. But there is some speculation that they were kinda conscious…”
“So essentially, they were imprisoned for over three hundred years.” Sam brushed his thumb over his lower lip thoughtfully. “Man, no wonder they’re pissed off. I would be too. As if it’s not bad enough suffering a violent death, to then be locked up by the very people who are supposed to help them resolve their unfinished business and move on.”
“Um, I don’t think we’re talking about the same higher powers.” Morgan frowns. “The ones you are used to dealing with may want to help souls cross over or whatever. The one we’re stuck with seem to want to regulate the haunting aspect of the whole business.”
“Kinda like different departments,” I supply helpfully.
Morgan huffs. “Yes, and like any governing body, one department doesn’t seem to want to communicate with the other.”
“I can tell we’re going to have a fascinating conversation when this is over,” Sam says, “but right now, you’ve got three very angry, newly awakened ghosts and a houseful of guests who want to party with them because they don’t realise the danger.”
“Are they really that dangerous?” I ask worriedly. “We’re so used to our ghosts, who are sometimes a little OTT, but their hearts are in the right place. The other ghosts wouldn’t actually hurt anyone, would they?”
“It’s not unheard of,” Sam replies. “But even if they’re not targeting the living in the house, it doesn’t mean people won’t get hurt in the crossfire. Doesn’t help that you’ve got an actual notorious ghost-hunting team here to video your greatest hits.”
“What should we do? Should we cancel tonight’s party and ghost hunt?” I wince. “I’m not sure how well that would go down, but we don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
“It’s up to you of course, but I think these ghosts are going to put in an appearance either way.”
“Tonight is the anniversary of the night they were all killed supposedly,” Morgan says.
“Of course it is.” Sam sighs. “If you can round up all the guests and staff and put them together in one place, at least, I suppose it’ll be easier to keep an eye on them. If I’m right, your ghosts are going to make an appearance tonight. If we can find them, maybe we can talk to them, help them cross to the other side or something. I don’t really know. This is usually Tristan’s gig, but in a dire emergency, I do have backup I can call.”
“Oh, you mean Dusty the Drag Queen?” I say.
“Um, not exactly,” Sam hedges. “Anyway, how posh is this party of yours tonight?”
“Why?” I reply.
Sam grins. “Because I’m gonna crash it.”
* * *
“The ballroom looks lovely, Ellis dear,” Essie coos at me from where she’s standing arm in arm with her sister.
“It certainly does,” Martha agrees. “I should be surprised at how quickly you managed to fix the mess that was made last night during the play, but then again, I’ve learned to never underestimate you, Ellis. Your staff may be small, but my goodness, you do a good job with this place.”
“Martha’s right.” Essie nods enthusiastically. “It really is quite the best place we’ve ever lived. In fact, we were talking about maybe joining Bertie and the others when our time comes, so you’d better put us down for a spot in that charming little graveyard beside the chapel.”
“Oh, um, right,” I reply.
“Ellis, are you quite alright?” Martha asks in concern. “You seem distracted tonight.”
“I’m fine.” I give them a smile. “Just lots to oversee.”
“Oh, of course, dear. We won’t keep you.” Essie pets my arm, and the two of them move off. They look very sweet in their matching party dresses, Essie in pink, Martha in yellow. I should have told them how pretty they look.
I shake my head. My brain is all over the place tonight. The party has barely started and I’m already having visions of rampaging ghosts and headless horsemen bursting into the ballroom to terrorise the guests. I’m not sure where the image of a headless horseman comes in, but I’m so jittery and it’s not like me at all.
“Relax,” I hear Morgan’s voice say close to my ear. I feel the heat of his body as he steps close. “Stop worrying until we have something to worry about.” I turn to look at him.
If I had been a cartoon character, my tongue would have rolled out of my head and covered half the ballroom floor while my eyes beat little hearts. God, he’s gorgeous, and he smells so sexy. His tux must be hand-tailored because it fits him like a second skin, and I don’t know what he’s wearing, but I want to roll all over him and rub his scent into my skin.
“You look amazing,” I whisper as my eyes drag down his body.
“So do you.” His mouth curves as his gaze glides over me. I resist the urge to smooth my tux down.
It’s certainly not even in the same league as Morgan’s; his is designer and mine is literally off the rack from Slaters, although they did offer to tailor it to fit my bum cheeks properly, so that was nice of them. Apparently, I have a lot of junk in the trunk, as the Americans would say.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask.
“He’s out in the lobby being nosy while Thad sets up some more equipment. They’re convinced something is going to manifest there tonight.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but god, I hope not,” I whisper.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, and as I turn away to look out over the ballroom, he strokes my back.
“Do you really believe that?”
“No.” He smiles. “I think tonight is going to go like everything else in this hotel. What’s the saying? Tits up?”
I snort and then take a deep breath. Okay, it’s fine, everything is going to be fine, I mentally chant to myself.
“It really does look great in here, Ellis,” Morgan says, looking around.
All the guests have dressed up so prettily, and the room is an explosion of pink and white around them. Bunting is looped from the ceiling, balloons are everywhere, ribbons, chiffon, everything we could get our hands on fills every space we could get to.
“I am certain the Sch?fers are flirting with the Taylor-Joneses.” Warren suddenly appears beside us, wearing one of his suits since he didn’t have a tux with him, but he still looks really good. Something Thad has definitely noticed.
Warren takes a sip of his champagne and his words register in my brain. “Seriously?”
He nods and wiggles his brows. “I think someone’s marriage is getting a little spiced up tonight.”
“They did say they wanted to try new things.” I glance in their direction and see the party of five drinking and standing very close together. There’s also a lot going on with their body language.
Deciding it’s really not my business as long as everyone is safe, happy, and consenting, my gaze shifts across the room. Rosie is chatting happily with Jules and Bez, whereas Aggie and Kem are having a conversation by the buffet table as she lays out more platters of food.
“Check DJ John the Maid in the house,” Warren says. “Still waters run deep. Who knew the man had so many talents?”
I look over to the makeshift stage and see John the Maid at the DJ station, queuing up all the music. He’s wearing a huge pair of headphones and turning nobs and dials or whatever he’s doing. He’s no longer wearing his customary apron, but his only other concession to formality is to swap his logo’d T-shirt for a very shiny satin button-up shirt in a very wild print.
“Oh no.” I hold my breath when I see Wally, not only with two black eyes and a bandaged nose. He’s limping towards John on a pair of crutches, one leg bandaged from his toes to his knee. “That’s not going to end well.”
“I’ve got this.” Morgan strides off across the ballroom.
“I see you guys picked up another stray.” Warren chuckles as he nods in the direction of Esme sitting in her wheelchair with Essie and Martha on one side and Vic and Cedric on the other. “This place is beginning to feel like The Best Marigold Hotel. You’re halfway towards bypassing hotel status and heading into retirement village territory.”
I turn to look at him and smile sweetly. “Why don’t you go say hi to Thad?”
“Ooh, kitty’s got claws.” He grins. “I’m going to enjoy having you as my future brother-in-law.”
I suck in a sharp breath and end up choking on my own spit and coughing. Wow, that isn’t embarrassing at all. Warren slaps me on the back a few times.
“I’m not—me and Morgan are not–”
“Oh, please.” Warren snorts. “You and he are like penguins or whatever. You mate for life. It’s written all over you, and having vetted you as my brother’s partner, I can say I fully approve. Of course, this does mean you are now subjected to the same teasing as him. Sorry.” He gives me big puppy-eyes as a fake apology . “Them’s the rules in that pesky fine print.”
I chuckle. “I like you too, Warren. I’m really glad Morgan has you.”
“Well, aren’t we just nauseatingly complimentary.” He shudders. “I feel like I need to go and be sarcastic to someone to balance out my karma.”
“Well, you’re in luck. Thad just walked in.”
Warren turns towards the doorway and his expression instantly darkens when he sees Thad walk in with Sam. “Excuse me, Ellis.”
He doesn’t wait for my response, he simply strides off across the floor the same way he brother did, just in the opposite direction.
I chuckle and scan the floor again. Oh shit , I mutter to myself as I see Bertie across the room. She’s dressed to the nines in her own tux, her wild grey hair ruthlessly side-parted and tamed into submission with some kind of gel. But it’s not her outfit that has me hurrying towards her. It’s whatever she seems to be emptying into the punch bowl.
I edge around Edwina waltzing around the dance floor with Skid, who I barely recognise in a suit with a thin tie and skinny drainpipe trousers, his usually vibrant green hair toned down to black and lying flat like a horse’s mane. Edwina has ditched her huge hat and Votes for Women sash and is wearing a beautiful Edwardian gown in deep purple, with elbow-length white gloves and strings of pearls accompanied by a pearl choker.
Leona is also on the dance floor, twirling around and doing the Charleston on her own, which, to be fair, I’ve never seen done in time to George Michael’s song, Faster Love . Still, they all seem to be having fun. John the Maid’s playlist just seems to be a compilation of songs with the word love in it, in honour of Valentine’s day, and I’m not going to complain.
Ignoring all the other house ghosts milling around the ballroom, I head towards Bertie.
“What are you doing?” I hiss when I reach her.
“What?” she says innocently. “I just thought, you know, in the event that we have a supernatural crisis, it might be a bit easier to explain it away to the guests if… you know… they’re a bit in their cups, so to speak.”
“Just what are you spiking the punch with?”
“Oh, you know, a little of Dilys’ moonshine. It’s got quite the kick, I well remember from my days as a fleshie.”
“Dilys was here while you were alive?” I say in surprise.
“Of course she was. Old girl’s been here forever,” Bertie says jovially. “Don’t think she’s leaving when she dies, either. She’ll probably still be manning the bar when the end of the world rolls around.”
“We’re getting off topic here.” I frown. “Bertie, you can’t just get everyone drunk so we don’t have to explain a potential haunting gone awry.”
“Pfft, why not? Dilys has been doing it for days. You do know the cocoa’s spiked too, don’t you?”
I sigh. “I was beginning to suspect. I’ll have to have a word with her. She can’t just go giving people alcohol without their knowledge.” I look at Bertie sharply. “It is just alcohol she’s putting in the cocoa, isn’t it?”
“What do you think she’s doing, dropping a dose of laudanum in?”
“Do they still even make that?” I blink. “I thought that went out with the Victorian era.”
“So did Dilys.” Bertie snorts. “Besides, I wouldn’t put it past her to be brewing up a batch with all of her distillery equipment in the cellar. She used to be a chemist, you know. It’s probably why she’s such a damn fine bartender.”
“Has she actually got a distillery in the cellar?” I frown. “Wait a minute, do we even have a cellar?”
Bertie winks cheekily. “Best-kept secret in the house.”
“Not anymore, it’s not,” I mumble.”
I’m just about to open my mouth to say something else when I suddenly feel the tiny hairs on my arms begin to rise, making my skin tingle. I breathe in and once again get that strange scent of burning in my nostrils. The lights above us begin to flicker and the air becomes charged with static electricity.
“Oh no.”