1

SIMON

“ Y ou look lost.” Simon glanced up as he unpacked from their honeymoon. Vic stood in the bedroom doorway of their blue bungalow.

Vic shook his head to clear his zoned-out expression and smiled. “Not lost. Just a little surprised.”

Simon tossed a shirt into the laundry basket. “About what?”

Vic shrugged. “I guess I thought being married would feel different somehow.”

Simon cocked his head and gave him a look. “What, like the ghost of Freddie Mercury would show up and sing ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’?”

Vic laughed. “Not exactly, although I wouldn’t turn down ‘We Will Rock You.’” He did the signature stomp rhythm and Simon chuckled.

Simon came around to Vic’s side of the bed. “Seriously—like what?”

Vic looked away, blushing. “Never mind. It’s silly.”

Simon touched Vic’s chin with his forefinger and lifted his face. “Not silly. Tell me.”

Vic sighed. “I honestly don’t know. More earth-shaking, somehow?”

“I thought we shook the earth pretty well last night,” Simon replied with a sexy tone that made Vic redden even more.

“Yes, we did. But I meant the everyday stuff feeling changed, I guess. And it’s just like normal—only with rings.”

Simon took Vic into his arms, enjoying the height difference of his husband being a few inches taller. “We’ve been living together for a while now. I think that was the big adjustment. Now we’re just us again, but with a spiffy certificate and some new jewelry. Didn’t even change names.”

“Kincaide-D’Amato or D’Amato-Kincaide doesn’t really fall trippingly off the tongue,” Vic replied.

“Dunno. You’ve got a very talented tongue.” Simon leaned in for a kiss, deepening it from a press of lips to demonstrate his point.

“I don’t know what I expected,” Vic said when they separated. “That’s why I said it was silly. It’s a big thing to be able to get married. And I loved our wedding and the reception and honeymoon. But I’m still me, and you’re still you, and we’re still us, if that makes any sense.”

Simon dove in for another quick kiss. “Yes, in a weird way. I think I know what you mean. And you’re right—we did the whole adjustment over what drawers to use and how to navigate sharing the bathroom and kitchen when you moved in. So while getting married was a big emotional and legal milestone, we had already done the adjusting.”

“It was all wonderful, and everything passed in a blur,” Vic replied. “The bachelor parties, the wedding, the honeymoon all absolutely perfect. But it was a whirlwind. Now we’re back to normal, and I’m trying to sync up, I guess.”

Simon laughed. “That’s as good a way to put it as any. Nothing’s changed—but everything changed.”

Their friends and families had given them the best bachelor parties Simon ever imagined, followed by the wedding of their dreams. They honeymooned at a haunted castle in England, which was memorable for many reasons, both personal and paranormal. Now that they were home, the past few months seemed like a fantasy.

“I imagine it was a lot different back when people didn’t live together first and waited to have sex,” Vic added.

Simon snorted. “Yeah, like that was going to happen.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Vic protested with a naughty grin. “Theoretically.”

They had been living together for a while, realizing soon after they got together that this relationship wasn’t like anything either of them experienced before. The connection between them was electric, overcoming Vic’s hesitance about the supernatural and Simon’s initial skepticism regarding law enforcement. To Simon’s eye, that proved they were meant to be.

Simon owned Grand Strand Ghost Tours on the Myrtle Beach boardwalk, where he used his psychic abilities to provide readings and seances. His ghost tours were popular because he knew the history and lore around Myrtle Beach’s famous haunts and often got insights from the ghosts themselves.

All the paranormal “woo-woo” had been difficult for Vic to accept at first. He was a down-to-earth Pittsburgh homicide detective who had relocated to the shore. His job depended on facts and evidence, and it had taken a while for Vic to accept that Simon’s gifts were real.

Since then, Simon often worked as an official consulting expert for the Myrtle Beach Police Department. Simon and Vic, with his partner Ross Hamilton, had solved a notable number of cases and stopped human and supernatural threats. It had taken work to develop their professional partnership, but now both the work and off-duty sides of their lives were finally in sync.

“For the amount of time we spent naked, we sure have a lot of dirty laundry,” Simon observed, looking at the overflowing basket. “How did that happen?”

“It was too chilly to go out without clothing, and we didn’t want to get arrested.” Vic tossed another pair of socks into the pile.

“Have you heard from Ross? Did the department survive without you? No crime sprees?”

Vic rolled his eyes. “Myrtle Beach isn’t exactly known for its crime waves, but apparently, things stayed pretty quiet. Ross hasn’t given me a lot of details—said he’d fill me in when I went to the station. I think he’s doing his best to help me extend that honeymoon feeling as long as possible.”

“Yeah, Pete keeps telling me that nothing much happened with the store.” Simon closed his empty suitcase and zipped it shut. “I mostly believe him, and I appreciate that he handled everything well on his own. But I guess we had to return to the real world sooner or later.”

As much as Simon had enjoyed the time away with Vic, he also liked running Grand Strand Ghost Tours and enjoyed helping people—living and dead—with his psychic abilities. He knew the value of being able to provide answers and closure, and his insights had brought killers to justice and solved cold cases, helping the spirits rest in peace.

“Of course, we’re getting back just in time for the craziness that happens in the fall.” Vic set his empty suitcase aside. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that , but it is what it is. Motorcycle season is starting. That’s always busy—for good reasons and bad.”

Myrtle Beach had been a favorite destination for motorcyclists and cycle clubs practically since the bikes were invented. Road rallies ended in town with celebrations on the Boardwalk. Cycle clubs held fall gatherings once the beaches weren’t quite as crowded and the temperatures were more leather-friendly. Local cops cracked down on cars and cyclists cruising Ocean Boulevard, but people managed to make several passes before being shooed away and then returned.

Bikes and bikers were a subject of conversation. Businesses appreciated the influx of visitors in the shoulder season—the months when the weather was warm, but most of the tourists had gone home. It picked up some of the slack from the exodus of beachgoers. Locals grumbled about traffic and noise, and some held outdated impressions that raised questions about crime or violence.

As Vic frequently pointed out, thanks to how expensive good bikes had become, the average bike owner was forty-seven. Which was at odds with the perception of young toughs from fifties-era movies.

Not that carousing didn’t happen, but the average rider was also married and much more likely to be an accountant or a doctor than a drifter.

“It’s usually not the bikers causing the problems,” Vic said. “It’s the people who come to the bars to hang out and pretend. They’ve seen Roadhouse a few too many times and want to live the dream.” That usually meant they woke up hungover and needing bail.

“In some ways, I like the summer drunks better than the fall drunks,” Vic went on. “The summer drunks are younger and happier. They’re still in college, so they’re used to getting blitzed and then going to class. The Halloween crowd is older, and they’re trying to relive their glory days, but they’ve lost the knack. I hate getting pulled into rounding them up.”

As a homicide detective, busting drunks wasn’t usually part of Vic’s regular job. But when things got out of hand, he ended up pitching in. “You’ve got it easy. At least dead people don’t throw up on your shoes.”

“Look at the bright side. We’ll go to a party, and it’ll be fine—like it always is,” Simon said with a smile, knowing how to smooth his husband’s ruffled feathers.

Vic kissed him. “I forget that this is your busy season too.”

“I’m booked pretty solid,” Simon agreed. “But that’s good because the shop slows down over the holidays—and the people who come in then are not as happy.”

Clients who sought out dead loved ones for Halloween tended to have a sense of humor about the whole thing. Around Thanksgiving and Christmas, the messages were sadder as people hoped to contact departed family members.

His work as a medium often had a healing component, helping the bereaved move on and giving the dead peace. Unlike the Halloween thrill-seekers, the customers who sought his services the rest of the year usually needed answers or sought absolution. Simon saw his abilities as far more than a boardwalk diversion.

“Don’t work too hard,” Vic teased. “We’ve still got some honeymoon energy to burn off.”

Simon pulled him close and gave him a deep kiss, letting one hand slip down to squeeze Vic’s ass while the other teased at his package. “Hold that thought. I promise I won’t be too tired.”

Vic headed to the precinct while Simon walked to the shop, enjoying a cool morning and the ocean breeze. He sipped coffee from a travel mug and lifted his face to the salt air, appreciating a moment of calm.

Intuition told him things were about to get more exciting before winter set in.

Simon had learned to love shoulder season. Some businesses closed over the winter, while others were open for shorter hours. The beach wasn’t deserted, but the boardwalk and restaurants weren’t jammed like in the summer. The city’s rhythms were the opposite of his old life, and Simon didn’t miss the past at all.

Several years ago, Dr. Sebastian Simon Kincaide taught Folklore and Mythology at a college in Columbia, South Carolina, where he had grown up in a wealthy family. Then a student’s very religious parent had accused him of teaching Satanism, the college had caved under pressure, and Simon lost his professorship, and soon after, his fiancé left him.

Angry and needing a new start, Simon found his way to Myrtle Beach after an aunt offered him the use of her bungalow. When she and his uncle retired to Florida, they sold him the house and wished him well.

He’d met Vic when the skeptical detective had been stymied by a serial killer and was desperate enough to ask a psychic for help. They had solved the case, sparks flew, and he and Vic ended up together.

“Hey, boss! How’s it going?” Pete King, Grand Strand Ghost Tours’ assistant store manager, greeted Simon when he walked in.

“Not too bad, but the day’s still young. Any new requests for bookings?”

“You’re nearly booked solid for October,” Pete said. “At least, as solid as you want to be. I think I could fill every slot if you wanted.”

“I’d be among the dead by Halloween if I did that.” Simon leaned against the counter. “And I have a husband to consider now.”

Contacting the spirits drained energy, and the longer the connection or the more difficult the spirit was to reach, the faster the medium was depleted. Simon had learned the hard way to manage his gift so that he didn’t end up flat on his back or so tired that it took days to recover.

Pete grinned. “How’s Vic adapting to married life?”

“We’re both finding it’s not quite as different as we expected.” Simon finished his coffee and set the insulated cup aside. “At least so far.”

“I’m the wrong person to know,” Pete said. “Still footloose and fancy-free.”

“Don’t let Mikki hear you say that.”

“Mikki’s the one who’s allergic to weddings. I’m working on him.”

Pete stayed up front while Simon went to the office and checked his schedule. He had several readings for customers in the morning, a meeting at the Grand Strand Sculpture Gardens after lunch to discuss a Halloween event, and a reminder to leave early for dinner with Vic.

“We got a call from a guy named Carter Edwards, the president of one of the motorcycle clubs,” Pete said from the doorway. “He wants you to contact some of their members who have passed away.”

“Accidents? Unusual circumstances?”

“He didn’t say,” Pete replied. “But he seemed really nervous. Like it was a big deal to him.”

“Fine. Go ahead and set something up. I’m intrigued.” Few things involving the dead constituted a true emergency that couldn’t wait. Simon had a hunch that the request was more than it seemed, and he had learned to go with his intuition.

“He asked to talk to you as soon as possible. You have an open spot marked ‘office’ this morning—can you meet with him then?” Pete asked.

“Yeah. This time. Don’t want to make a habit of it.”

“I’ll let him know,” Pete said.

“Did you get the name of the club?”

Pete handed him a sheet from the phone notepad. “They’re the Low Rangers. I looked them up—his number and the club website are on the paper. Already did a little checking. From what I found, back in the eighties they were quite a wild bunch—got in trouble with the law, raised some hell, were the bad boys of the Grand Strand.

“Then they went straight, after some of their members died in rumbles or went to prison,” Pete went on. “Now they do charity fundraisers, holiday food bank drives, help out at senior centers, and volunteer to rehabilitate rescue dogs. Vic could probably tell you more.”

Simon thought through what Pete said because his sixth sense pinged. “So the members cleaned up their act and do a lot of things that could be viewed as absolution,” he mused. “When you said members died, was that in fights with other clubs, accidents, cops, or what?”

Pete leaned against the counter. “It depends on who wrote the story. All of those have been mentioned, especially in the early days. But one article claimed that the Low Rangers allegedly made a deal with something back in the day to save the club members from dying in a gang war. The price has been one life a year ever since.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “One life a year? For how long?”

“Since the eighties,” Pete replied. “So of course I had to verify, and I found a list of names and dates. They all check out as being real people, real club members, and really dead—or rather missing and presumed dead.”

“Cause of death?”

“Vanished without a trace; never seen again.” Pete shot him a self-satisfied smile at his research skills. “Sounds like a bad bargain to me.”

Simon caught his breath. “That matches a lot of dangerous stories. Demon deal, Wild Hunt.”

“Those came to mind.”

“Forty-some people gone missing? Maybe dead. Why does anyone join the club? Why don’t they all quit?” Simon’s mind reeled.

“The Low Rangers draw from cyclists with a rough past,” Pete said. “They’ve always been a criminal gang—except now they’re reformed outlaws. All of them have done jail time. They aren’t choir boys, but they’re also not looking for trouble anymore. I guess people join to make up for their past. The legends say that the peace arrangement forged by the Rangers is why there hasn’t been a gang war since then in Myrtle Beach.”

“It makes sense,” Simon replied. “And I could see the club as welcoming. Back in the day, there were monasteries that offered a chance to do good work within a community that would maintain accountability. People could contribute without being out in the larger world by making wine, copying manuscripts, that sort of thing.”

“Not as many options now,” Pete agreed. “And there’s a fatalistic romance to taking your chances over being the next sacrifice for a good cause, especially if you don’t think your life is worth much otherwise.”

Simon believed the club members’ lives had value, but he understood why someone who had a lifelong run of bad circumstances could conclude otherwise.

“Well, you’ve got me hooked. I wonder what Vic’s heard about the club.”

“When you find out, let me know,” Pete said. “This is right before the Myrtle Beach Monster Motorcycle Mania rally. Coincidence?”

“Shit. I managed to forget about that. It’s the season, right?”

Pete nodded. “As soon as the back-to-school stuff goes on clearance, it’s spooky time.”

Simon had mixed feelings about Halloween. As a kid, he loved the costumes and candy. As a folklore professor, the cultural celebration fascinated him. And as a medium, sometimes the press of spirits at a time when the Veil was thin seemed overwhelming.

He and Vic decorated the bungalow and gave out candy for Trick-or-Treat, and they usually got invited to someone’s Halloween party or went to a shindig at a favorite bar.

But those with abilities remained watchful. After the autumn solstice, the balance favored darkness over light until spring. And while most people gave little notice to anything except the time change, those who dealt with magic and energy recognized a real, primordial shift.

Simon made sure to renew the wardings on the shop and bungalow, recharge their protective amulets under the light of a full moon, and reconsecrate the sigils and runes that provided a powerful deterrent to dangerous supernatural entities.

Despite all the precautions, Simon relied on his psychic radar and the warnings of helpful ghosts to keep the darkness at bay.

“Has Vic finally adjusted to the ghost stuff?” Pete asked. It was a fair question, given how skeptical Vic had been when they first met.

“Mostly. He doesn’t doubt that it’s all true, and he believes my abilities are real. He knows more about what goes bump in the night than he used to. Honestly—Vic sees enough darkness with what the living can do that I’m just as glad he doesn’t know all the dangers from the other side.”

Simon went to get another cup of coffee and sat at the breakroom table to take a few minutes to get ready for Edwards. He closed his eyes, stilled his thoughts, and focused on his breathing. Ghosts with something to say could usually get his attention even when his mind was busy; tuning in was easier when he silenced the internal chatter.

He had never given the motorcycle rally much consideration other than when it bogged down traffic or the roar of the engines made it hard to think. Vic rode a black Hayabusa and sometimes enticed Simon to ride behind him, but he never felt completely comfortable on the bike.

Vic, on the other hand, loved to ride but viewed the clubs with skepticism. Most were just enthusiasts having fun, but a few left a wake of vandalism and public nuisance complaints behind them, a mess for the cops to handle.

In the ether, Simon sensed the low hum of spirits gathering. Even non-believers and those without a whiff of paranormal ability could pick up on the shift, which gave rise to the season’s stories.

Pete poked his head into the room. “Mr. Edwards is here. He’s at the front counter.”

Simon released his meditation, thanking the energies and invoking their protection. Any time mortals interacted with the other realms of existence, there was risk. Simon knew that all too well from readings that went dangerously wrong.

Just in case, he kept an emergency flask of salted holy water laced with colloidal silver and iron filings, a mixture likely to repel most supernatural creatures.

Simon walked up front and saw a man with long gray hair waiting at the counter. The visitor wore a leather motorcycle vest over black jeans and boots and looked the part of a bad boy biker.

“Mr. Edwards? I’m Simon Kincaide,” he greeted his client, concentrating on learning everything he could from their initial contact.

Edwards looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, and the lines around his eyes and sun damage to his face suggested those were hard years. He had a trim build, still solid. One hand rested on the counter, and Simon saw old broken knuckles that hadn’t healed right.

A hint of darkness clung to the man like a geas—or perhaps, Simon thought, it was the weight of a bad bargain made more than half a century ago.

Edwards extended his hand, and Simon shook it, picking up more psychic information. He’s not just nervous—he’s scared.

“Please, have a seat.” Simon ushered him to the table he used for readings in the shop’s alcove, separated from the main area by a curtain.

Edwards sat, and Simon took the seat across from him. The man smelled faintly of old sweat, cheap aftershave, and worn leather.

“I want to make a trade,” Edwards blurted before Simon could ask any questions. “I want them to take me this year and I don’t know how to let them know.”

Simon was grateful for the research Pete had done because otherwise the man’s outburst would have made no sense. He suspected that he knew what Edwards meant, but he needed to be sure.

“I don’t think I follow. I’ll be more help if you can please start at the beginning.”

Edwards looked around nervously as if he was afraid of being overheard.

“Don’t worry. Pete will make sure we’re not disturbed, and you can count on his discretion,” Simon assured his guest. “How can I help you?”

“A long time ago, my club made a bargain to stop something bad from happening,” Edwards said. “We agreed to pay a powerful third party in exchange for keeping the peace. For forty years, that maintained a truce that saved a lot of lives.”

“You want to change the bargain?” Simon knew from folklore that such things never went well.

“No!” Edwards looked frightened, as if they might be overheard. “Every year, to keep the peace, someone from our club goes to…join…the third party. They pick someone according to their own measures. I don’t know who they intend to choose this year, but I want them to take me.”

Simon’s intuition picked up a powerful mix of feelings—sadness, regret, and resignation.

“Why do you want to be taken?” Simon noticed that Edwards didn’t clarify what was involved in the taking or who the third party was, but it tracked with what Pete had uncovered.

“I’ve been with the club for forty years,” Edwards said. “They’re more my family than anyone who’s blood kin to me. We’ve been through a lot together. They’re my brothers, sons—hell, grandsons. I haven’t lived a good life, and it’s catching up to me.”

He paused for a deep, wracking cough, and Simon read emphysema from his thoughts as if the sound left room for doubts.

“All those cigs I smoked finally caught up to me.” Edwards gave a bitter smile. “Then again, I never thought I’d live long enough for it to matter. James Dean didn’t.”

He paused to cough again, and it took longer for him to catch his breath. “Fucking COPD. Doc says I don’t have much time left. That’s why it should be me. Got nothing to lose.”

Simon read the sincerity in the man’s voice. “You don’t know how they choose who to take?”

He wanted to ask who “they” were. Such deals could rarely be broken, but sometimes alternate bargains could be struck depending on what the entity valued.

Edwards shook his head. “I’ve watched it happen all these years, heard plenty of talk. All anyone is sure of is that it’s one person, once a year, to stop the bad things, to keep the peace and all the other members safe.”

If that’s the deal Edwards’s long-ago club president made with an entity, the man was an idiot, Simon thought. Creatures like the fay or demons were the origin of the phrase “the devil’s in the details.” Both were more meticulous than any lawyer, with centuries of experience in deception.

Simon didn’t want to believe the bargain was quite that awful, but it wouldn’t be the first time a clueless mortal got led astray by a smooth-talking supernatural creature.

“Do you know any details about where the original deal was made?” Simon asked. “Location, date, any special ceremony or offering?”

This didn’t sound like a crossroads deal, not that demons wouldn’t welcome a steady tribute of souls. It had all the earmarks of something fey, which was much worse.

“That’s where I was hoping you could help.” Edwards licked his lips nervously. “I don’t know if the ones who were taken died, but I assume they did. Can you contact them?”

If this was, as Simon feared, a deal with the fay or a similarly ancient creature, there was no way to guess their willingness to make a trade. Some might find human sentiment amusing and do so out of ennui. Others were legalistic in the extreme and likely to take offense.

“Who do you want to contact in the afterlife?” Simon believed Edwards was sincere, and he appreciated the man’s willingness to offer himself to save someone who might have more years ahead of them.

“Dennis disappeared last year. Michael the year before that. Rodney and then Aaron. Can we start with them?”

Simon put his hands out, palms up, and Edwards’s cold fingers gripped him. “Close your eyes. There are spirits near, but I’m not sure whose.” Simon focused inwardly on the ghosts he sensed were close. They weren’t visible, but they were definitely tangible.

“Dennis. Rodney. Michael. Aaron. Your friend Carter Edwards is here, and he would like to speak with you.” Simon spoke into the ether and waited for a response.

He could feel the spirits’ agitation but wasn’t sure of the reason. Is something keeping them from answering, or don’t they want to respond?

One of the ghosts ventured closer. “Carter—is that you?” Simon relayed what the spirits said, supplying as much detail as he could.

“Denny? Yes, I’m here. God, Denny. Are you dead?” Despite his tough appearance, Edward’s voice broke.

“Yeah, Carter. That was the deal. They took us, and we died. All of us.”

In Simon’s mind, he saw Denny as a wiry man in his forties who looked like he had seen hard times. Close behind him were three others, all equally rough-looking, still clad in biker leathers.

Edwards choked back a sob. “I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.”

“It was time, bro,” one of the other ghosts, a large, broad-chested man, replied. “Wasn’t gonna live forever, and my number should have been up long ago.”

“Are you okay?” Edwards’s voice shook.

“Could be worse,” a third spirit replied, this one older than the rest with graying temples. “I’m not downstairs. Wasn’t counting on upstairs. Better than I deserve.”

“You don’t look good, Carter,” the fourth ghost said. “Gonna be heading our way soon.”

Edwards gripped Simon’s hands tightly. “That’s why I called you. I don’t have long, and someone else can get a little more time.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was steady. “I thought you might know how I can find the one we made the deal with and ask him to take me next.”

Simon heard the murmur of distant voices as the ghosts conferred among themselves. “We fade here,” one of the spirits replied. “It feeds.”

A shudder went through Edwards, and Simon didn’t fault his reaction.

“They screwed up when they made the deal,” Edwards said. “Didn’t mind the details.”

“We’re not much for lawyers,” the first ghost said, and their laughter chilled Simon.

“Can I do it? Can I get a message through to the dealmaker? Can you ask him?” Edwards pressed.

Simon felt the ghosts tire and knew he couldn’t keep the connection much longer.

“We’ll pass it along,” the third spirit replied. “No promises.”

“Thank you.” Edwards slumped with relief. “See you soon.”

Simon felt the four ghosts depart, but another presence lingered at the edge of his perception. It wasn’t human, but it was definitely interested, although it made no move to get closer.

“Who are you?” Simon asked silently.

“He called, and I answered,” the entity replied.

“You’re the dealmaker?”

“I have been many things.”

“Did you hear his request?” Simon sensed that whatever creature had answered the call was powerful and ancient, and probably never human.

“I did. I will consider it. The time has come to take another offering.”

Courtesy when dealing with immortal spirits was essential for self-preservation, something Simon took seriously, but the lore was clear that thanking the fay could imply an unwanted indebtedness.

The ghosts and entity vanished from Simon’s Sight, leaving him drained. Edwards gasped, and Simon held up a hand to keep Pete from coming closer.

“Stay back. I haven’t opened the wardings yet.”

Simon spoke the incantation to cleanse the space and dispel ghosts and any other powers attracted by the séance. He dismissed the call to the spirits and thanked the ghosts, making sure to strengthen the protections in case the entity thought about coming back. Simon wasn’t sure what Edwards and his club had summoned, but Simon hoped he never dealt with it again.

He sensed when the energies cleared and felt relieved when Edwards straightened his shoulders.

“Thank you.” Edwards let go of Simon’s grip. “That’s as much as I can ask for.”

“You know that the entity is feeding on the ghosts.” Simon felt the need to make that point clear.

“I’m not surprised. We don’t call it that in the club, but on some level, I think we all know. Maybe it’ll take me next. Maybe it won’t. But at least I tried—and I got to hear from my boys again.”

Edwards’s craggy features softened a bit, looking less agitated. Whatever crimes he had committed and however he had paid for them, the biker seemed at peace. “Helluva thing you can do, raising ghosts like that. I wasn’t sure you were the real deal when I walked in, but you’ve got what my grandma called the shine.”

“You’re welcome,” Simon replied. “Go in peace.”

Edwards paid for the session. Simon and Pete watched him leave.

“What did you make of that?” Pete asked.

“How much did you hear?”

“Pretty much all of it.”

Simon shook his head. “I wish I knew what they conjured. It was a fairly powerful entity. This is why casting magic when you don’t know what you’re doing is a bad thing.”

“Think it’ll give him what he wants?”

“No way to know.” Simon shrugged. “Depends on how much it enjoys jerking mortals around.”

Simon cleansed the energies around his work table again and said another blessing, just in case. Pete ducked into the break room and returned with a chocolate bar and a cup of coffee.

“Eat. Drink. You need it after that.” Pete pushed the items into his hands. “I’ll smudge and replace the protections.”

Now that the séance was over, Simon felt drained, tired enough he thought he might fall asleep in his chair. After channeling spirits for years, he wasn’t surprised, recognizing the cost of connecting to the other side. Food, drink, and sleep would replace what he had spent.

Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Simon went into his office to work on bookkeeping while Pete handled the few customers who wandered in.

Just before sunset, as they were closing for the night, Vic called.

“Hey, I’m going to be late for dinner. All the uniforms got called out to an accident, and I said I’d help cover until some of them came back.”

“What happened?” A cold premonition slithered through Simon’s bones.

“Don’t know the details, but a guy on a Harley hit a car, and from what the witnesses are saying, he just disappeared,” Vic recounted. “They can’t all be drunk.”

Simon managed a sad smile. “Older guy, biker leathers?”

Vic hesitated. “Yeah. How did you know?”

“It’s a long story. I just did a séance for him. Seems like someone was listening. You can look for the body all you want, but you’re not going to find it.”