Ghost of a Chance (8 page)

The car jerked forward four feet. My
forehead hit the padded dash.

“Sorry. This car is a little different from
my foster mom’s. I have it now.”

We shot out of the garage, trailing tinsel
and garlands, some of it flying off the car as we careened around
the corner on what felt like only two wheels. I clutched the
dashboard with both hands, mute with horror.

“Gotta have tunes while I’m driving,” Pixie
said, fiddling with the radio. I screamed and pointed. She jerked
the car back into our lane, narrowly missing plowing headlong into
a semitrailer. “It’s not what I normally listen to, but it’ll have
to do.”

Rap exploded from the radio.

I closed my eyes and prayed to every deity I
could think of to just get us to the house without anyone being
maimed or killed.

“Well,
that
doesn’t look good.”

As I got out of the car, a large shadow
arose from a settee on the verandah and stood at the top of the
steps. It was Adam, and he was holding a shotgun.

“Wow. He’s really pissed-looking.” Pixie
eyed Adam for a moment before waving me ahead. “You go first.”

“It is not proper that Karma be exposed to
such danger. I will go first,” Sergei said, floating to the front
of our little group.

“He’s not going to shoot me,” I assured my
sweet domovoi. “He’s just trying to make a statement.”

“Yeah. A statement like a herkin’ big hole
blown through your head,” Pixie added in a suspiciously cheerful
voice.

“You are a morbid little girl,” Sergei told
her.

“At least I’m alive, and I’m not a slave,”
she snapped back.

“I am a domovoi! I am not a slave—”

“Knock it off, you two,” I interrupted,
squaring my shoulders and starting up the flagged pathway.

“This is difficult enough without you going
at it. If you all could be quiet and let me deal with the
situation, I’d appreciate it. Hello, Adam.”

“I told you that you were not welcome on my
property,” Adam called down from the verandah. “I meant it, Karma.
You will step foot in my house over my dead body.”

I ignored the fact that he made an
impressively threatening figure—with or without the gun—and slowly
climbed the stairs until I was directly in front of him. Pixie
trailed behind me. Sergei was beside her, materializing only enough
to be vaguely visible. “That’s going to be a little difficult given
that you’re a polter, isn’t it?”

Even in the failing light, I could read the
irritation that flashed through his eyes. “My heritage has nothing
to do with the situation.”

“No? I have always believed that orthodox
polters were bound to their domiciles, guardians of their homes,
unable and unwilling to leave them so long as they stood. That
sounds to me like very good motivation for not wanting to face the
reality of the loss of your property.”

His face tightened. “You’ve been busy.
Looked me up, did you?”

I smiled. “I work for the Akashic League.
Their records are extremely extensive when it comes to Otherworld
citizens, so it wasn’t difficult to find a background on you.
You’re an orthodox polter, born 1902—which means you’ve had long
enough to drop the extra arms, and you work in the mundane world as
a U.S. marshal. Your family has guarded this house since it was
built, although it wasn’t until the 1990s that you bought it
outright and took over ownership from the mortal family who
inhabited it. I believe those are all the pertinent facts.”

“Not quite all,” he said, shifting the
shotgun to his left hand. I fought the urge to back up a step or
two at the hard look on his face. “You missed one: I, too, work for
the Akashic League.”

That took me aback for a moment. “You do? In
what capacity?”

“I am a member of the watch,” he said with a
smile that was far from reassuring.

“He’s a watch?” Pixie asked in a puzzled
whisper. “How can you be a
member
of a watch?”

I didn’t have time to do more than wonder
why she wasn’t aware of the Otherworld police system. Evidently
Sergei filled her in, because it wasn’t a few seconds later that
she said, “Oh, great, he’s a cop. They were always arresting my
foster dad. Although he had it coming a couple of times.”

“ ‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,’ ” I
quoted softly.

Adam all but smirked. “I’m not Lord Byron,
but it fits well enough. And you aren’t the only one who used the
League’s archives to look things up. I know all about the
wergeld.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, considering his
unspoken threat.

“You know? Who did Karma kill? She won’t
tell me anything!” Pixie complained.

I prayed for patience. “Many people know
about my history. It’s not relevant right now, however. My husband,
who is due here at any minute,
is
relevant. He will have
little respect for the fact that you’re a marshal, and none for the
fact that you’re a member of the Otherworld’s elite police force.
You’re going to have to face that legally he owns your house, Adam.
He’s mortal. You’re not. By the laws that govern the League, you
can’t do anything to seriously harm him.”

“Except in self-defense,” he corrected,
taking up an aggressive stance. “I have no doubt he will attempt to
attack me, at which point I will legally be able to defend myself
and my home.”

“You don’t know Spider,” I said, shaking my
head. “He’s—”

“Oooh, guests! Adam, you didn’t tell me we
were to have
guests
! And me without mint juleps or fresh
gingerbread. A domovoi! And merciful Scot, another polter!”

Pixie, who had been loudly chewing gum,
stopped to eye the young man with long blond curls, clad in what
seemed to be late-Victorian garb, as he appeared in front of her.
He wore a highly anachronistic bright yellow apron bearing the
words IS THAT A SAUSAGE ON MY GRILL, OR AM I JUST HAPPY TO SEE YOU?
“Not more bigots!”

The spirit squealed. “Not in the least, my
dear girl! We positively love polters here! Adam, why didn’t you
tell me we were going to have guests?”

“Get back in the house!” For a moment, Adam
looked disconcerted as he attempted to shoo the spirit back through
the front door. “I told you it wasn’t safe out here!”

“Don’t be ridiculous; these lovely ladies
wouldn’t dream of harming anyone! Julie! You simply have to come
out here! We have guests!”

“No,” Adam said, throwing himself across the
front door. “No one else—”

“This had better be important, because my
egg whites aren’t even close to stiff yet, and you know what a
disaster limp whites can be… Sweet St. Peter and all the saints!
Lady visitors!” The spirit of a second young man swept right
through Adam, stopping next to his friend. He was likewise dressed
in Victorian clothing, although his waistcoat was a shimmering
turquoise, while the first spirit’s was a gorgeous patterned silver
and green. “Welcome to our home. It’s been forever and a day since
anyone has paid us a call. We must warn Amanita.”

“Oh yes, absolutely,” the first spirit
agreed.

Adam banged his forehead on the door frame a
few times. “Why don’t you listen to me? Why does no one listen to
me?”

“The younger one is a polter,” the first
spirit whispered loudly to the second after Sergei introduced
himself. “I think she’s what they call a punk rocker.”

“I’m not into punk!” Pixie said with a toss
of her black hair. “I’m a Goth!”

The spirits peered at her. “Are you sure?”
the one named Julie asked. “You look like the people on the TV we
saw a few decades back. All black leather and chains and spiky dyed
black hair.”

“I’m fifteen, not a million years old! I’m a
Goth
!”

“I talk. I know I’m talking, because I can
hear my voice, but no one listens.” Adam whumped his head on the
door a few more times.

“Goth? As in Visigoth? Is it some sort of
alternative lifestyle?”

“We’re all over alternative lifestyles,” the
first spirit said, nodding.

Pixie heaved a dramatic sigh. I smiled at
Adam. He banged his forehead twice more.

“It’s not an alternative lifestyle. Goth
is…” Pixie’s hands gestured while she tried to put into words her
outlook on life. “It’s… oh, it’s hard to explain. It’s dark. It’s
all about darkness and evil and twisted reality.”

“Now you’ve lost me,” Julie said.

I took pity on the ghosts. “It’s a somewhat
popular movement wherein members express via creative means the
duality of man’s nature, exploring everything dark and nightmarish,
often through music, poetry, books, and dress style.”

“There’s more to it than that!” Pixie said,
outrage dripping from her words.

“Yes, but we only have so long before Adam
is going to give himself a concussion,” I said with a nod toward
him.

He glared at me in return.

“Well, whatever you are, it’s a look that
works,” the second spirit told Pixie, totally ignoring Adam. “I am
Jules, and this is my domestic partner, Antony.

Please, all of you, do come in and make
yourselves comfortable. I don’t think we’ve ever had a Goth in
before. We’ll open a bottle of champagne to celebrate!”

“I don’t like champagne,” Pixie said with a
regal inclination of her head as she marched in the door. “I’d
prefer absinthe.”

“Do you have any oats?” Sergei asked as he
drifted after her.

“You’re not having anything alcoholic—” I
said, but was cut off almost immediately.

“This is ridiculous!” Adam shouted, blocking
the door again so I couldn’t follow Pixie. He swung around to face
his spirits, his arms outstretched to bar the entrance. “You don’t
know who you’re talking to. These people are not here on a social
visit. They’re dangerous to you all!”

“Ignore Adam. He’s so melodramatic,” Jules
told Pixie.

I ducked under Adam’s right arm and squeezed
into the room before he could grab me.

“I am not melodramatic! I have never been
melodramatic a day in my life! I am the least melodramatic person I
know, and I know a lot of people! Now, will you be quiet and listen
to me? I’m trying to save your rotten hides!”

“It’s like living with a drama queen,” the
spirit named Antony said in a confiding tone as he escorted Pixie
to a chair. “He’s been very cranky today because some evil assassin
is on his way here to destroy us. Now, you just sit right there.
Serge, darling, you must think us utter pigs for allowing you into
a room in such a state, but it’s simply impossible to get good help
these days. It’s all Julie and I can do to keep the kitchen
running. But that’s another story, isn’t it? Everyone relax, and
make yourselves comfy. We’ll be back with a little something to
celebrate your visit.”

Tony started across the room but stopped
when his partner grabbed his arm and nodded toward me.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Tony said, hustling
to offer me a hand, his body suddenly changing from translucent to
solid. “I’m the rudest thing ever, aren’t I! Please, do come
in.”

“Stop! You have no idea who she is!” Adam
warned.

Tony waved away the objection as I shook his
hand. “Pfft. Any friend of Adam’s is a friend of ours. How d’ye do?
I’m Antony.”

“Karma,” I said, shaking his hand.

“She’s the exterminator come to send you and
the others to the Akasha,” Adam growled behind me.

Tony’s eyes widened, his face freezing.
Beyond him, Jules stopped dead, an identical look of horror on his
face.

“The assassin is here?” a voice squeaked
from behind the door. A petite woman with white-blond hair that
stuck out in odd clumps burst out, her large gray eyes dark with
fear. She threw her hands over her head, shrieking, “Eeek! I don’t
want to die looking like this!”

The woman raced across the polished wooden
floor and disappeared up the stairs. The two spirits vanished.
Pixie plopped herself down on the sofa and pulled out her iPod.
Sergei faded a few notches until he was just barely visible.

I turned to face Adam, who was standing with
a belligerent look on his face, the shotgun still clutched in his
hands.

“Was that woman what I think she was?”

“Amanita is a unicorn, yes. She’s having a
bad hair day. You’re not going to send the ghosts or her to the
Akasha.” His voice was deep and full of threat.

“No, I’m not,” I agreed, taking him by
surprise. I smiled and waved my hand somewhat wearily toward the
Sergei. “How do you think I ended up with a Russian domovoi?”

“And the imps,” Sergei said, a glint of
humor in his eye. “And Peter the dada.”

One of Adam’s eyebrows rose as he considered
me. “You have a vegetable spirit?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

He just stared at me.

I sighed. “Yes, I have a dada, and imps,
although I released them into the wild earlier today, and Sergei,
and as you can see, a teenage polter named Pixie.”

“Obsidian Angel!”

“I thought it was Desdemona,” Adam said,
momentarily distracted.

Pixie looked down her nose at him, not an
easy task given his height and the fact that she was sitting down.
“I
changed
it! It’s Obsidian Angel now!”

“I know you think I’m the devil himself,” I
said, turning back to Adam. “But I’m not. I’m not going to send
your charges to the Akasha; I promise. I will, however, have to
relocate them.”

“No,” Adam said, his face growing dark.

I sighed again and took his non-shotgun
hand, pulling him over to the settee across from Pixie. “Look, I
know you don’t want to go over this again, but we literally are out
of time. Spider will be here any minute. I’m surprised he wasn’t
here to meet me, actually. This house legally belongs to him.” I
held up my hand to stop the protest. “I know, I know, he got it
from you by trickery, but legally, it belongs to him. He has made a
deal with me to clean it. If he shows up and the spirits and your
unicorn are not gone, there will be hell to pay.”