Two

Cormac should have turned around and gone home when he had the chance.

He'd arrived last night, later than he'd intended, because the snow had been falling hard, reducing visibility to nothing and making the roads an ice rink. The headlights turned the snow into a shifting wall, so he dimmed them. He had to carefully steer the Jeep around switchbacks growing dangerously slippery.

"This is a bad idea," he muttered.

This is a paying job, Amelia noted.

"There'll be other jobs. We're going to be snowed in up here for days."

Ask for hazard pay. It will be lovely. I've never seen snow like this, it's marvelous.

"Yeah, wait ‘til there's three feet of it and you can't open the doors."

Donner Pass, she murmured, recalling memories of an earlier case. They had explored the area around Truckee, California in high summer, wondering what the area must have looked like with the twenty feet of snow that had piled up on the ill-fated members of the Donner Party. Yeah, it might have looked a little like this. They must have felt something like this sense of foreboding, suspecting that they should have turned back only when it was far too late.

Even with chains on, the tires spun briefly on the next incline, and he grumbled.

Finally, the road leveled out, the pine forest thinned, and their destination appeared: Wright House. The ornate hulk of a Victorian lodge occupied what in summer would be a wide meadow, hemmed in by a forest which loomed in the fading light. Now, snow blanketed the area, erasing details. The house itself was an artifact from the gold rush days, restored and turned into a vacation lodge. Three stories tall, it was full of gables and bay windows, scalloped trim, and painted shutters. A long porch with carved rails stretched across the front. Warm light glowed from several windows, and smoke rose up from one of a pair of chimneys. The whole scene was obscured by a lacework veil of immense snowflakes. Well, at least it would be warm and dry inside, though heat in these old houses could be tricky. He hoped for the best.

A collection of other cars already occupied the circular drive curving up to the front porch. Mostly SUVs and other four-wheel-drive vehicles but also, incongruously, a tiny Miata convertible. With a foot of new snow mounded on top of it, it looked like some kind of cute pastry next to the others. Clearly it had arrived early.

"We're definitely getting snowed in," he said, parking his Jeep at the end of the row, front end out. Forecast said this was going to keep up all night. He pulled his duffle bag out of the back, wincing as his shoulder twinged. The gunshot wound from last summer—acquired in Deadwood, South Dakota, of all places—might have healed, but it was feeling the cold now and stiffening up. He switched the bag to the other hand and bent his head against the weather.

A warm fire, a nice drink… really, Cormac, you need to be more positive.

Maybe if it was just him in the house, and not him and a bunch of strangers. Maybe if this wasn't a job. He paused on the steps leading to the front door. Snow instantly collected on his hair, the shoulders of his leather jacket, and his bag.

"There's still a chance to get back down the mountain before the snow socks us in."

We're here now. Might as well see what's this is all about, yes?

He thumped up the remaining steps to the shelter of the porch, brushed the snow off, and knocked on the door. A murmur of voices within was audible. He watched the shadow of a figure appear beyond the frosted-glass decoration in the door. At last, the door opened, revealing an older woman smiling up at him.

"Cormac! Well, just look at you!"

"Mrs. Anderson," he said politely, out of twenty-five-year-old habit.

"Oh, don't Mrs. Anderson me, not when you're all grown up now. Call me Beck. Come in, come in!"

"Yes, ma'am," he said wryly as he followed her into the foyer.

"Thank you so much for coming out in this weather. Snow like this isn't really surprising this time of year, but it's still a hassle. Here, let's get your coat off, just set your bag down for now. We were sitting down to dinner, you're just in time."

The jacket went on a hook on an already-filled coat tree. The decor here was warm, invitingly vintage, giving the place an authentic rather than ostentatious atmosphere. Dark wood paneling on the walls contrasted with the brass light fixtures. A couple of fancy side tables and an upholstered wingback chair stood watch, and he could imagine a gentleman in a bowler hat sitting there, reading a morning paper, a hundred years ago. In his jeans and plain T-shirt, Cormac felt out of place.

A gentleman doesn't wear a hat indoors, Amelia observed. Well, good thing Cormac didn't have a hat. He shook snow out of his hair.

A couple of paintings of western landscapes hung on the walls, and a copy of a Remington sculpture, the one of the horse and rider navigating a steep downward slope, had pride of place on one of the tables. A Persian rug softened the wood floor. He was almost afraid to step on it.

"This is nice," he said, for lack of anything more creative.

"It's been a bear getting the place ready for paying guests." She scowled, but her eyes gleamed with pride. "We're almost there, I think. This weekend's the dry run."

"What exactly do you want me to be looking for?"

Her voice dropped, a soft conference between the two of them. "Keep an eye on my psychic. If he says the place is haunted—well, you're my quality control. I'm hoping you can let me know if he's the real deal or blowing smoke."

Wright House was supposed to be haunted. A lurid tale of tragic murder and violence, the way these things usually were. Two brothers, an argument, a shootout... and now a ghost. Cormac and Amelia had examined a lot of haunted—and so-called haunted—houses. Investigating a medium on the sly? That was new, and now that he was here, Cormac discovered he was looking forward to the challenge. It felt a little like a hunt.

"This is just the kind of thing I would have called your father about, back in the day. When I heard you'd followed in his footsteps—"

"Not quite. Maybe followed him on the next wheel track over."

"Good enough for me." She took hold of his elbow companionably. "Let's go meet everyone."

She guided him through an inviting parlor with that blazing fire in the fireplace Amelia had been so looking forward to, through an archway to a formal dining room. With a long, polished table and a crystal chandelier over it, it looked like something out of a British period TV series. Beck had really gone all out putting the house together. China place settings, high-backed mahogany chairs, a long sideboard with graceful, curving legs, and another Persian rug, all plush and glowing in warm light.

The five people sitting around the table turned to stare at him, which made his shoulders bunch up.

"Here he is, he made it after all. This is Cormac Bennett, friend of the family."

Be polite, Amelia murmured, and Cormac managed a stiff, fleeting smile.

He spotted the hired psychic right off: Vane was a young punk to Cormac's eyes, with spiky black hair, a slick goatee, a lot of jewelry, and a disdainful way of looking down his nose. Seated next to him, Lora Mirelli was just as image conscious, ostentatiously goth, with the tips of her brown hair dyed in fiery shades of orange. She sneered a bit at Cormac, who must have looked ancient and old-fashioned to her, with his mustache and western slouch.

On the other side of the table sat Monty and June Connor, in matching pearl-snap western shirts, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. They smiled broadly in the way of people used to being on stage. They were singers and storytellers, kitschy cowboy poets Beck was planning to bring in as entertainment. They were probably going to sing at some point this weekend, and Cormac thought that asking for hazard pay wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Lastly, Beck introduced Glyn Farrow, seated at the end of the table. He gave Cormac a slight nod.

Monty Connor greeted him in a booming down-home voice. "Quite a storm, must have been a heck of a drive!"

Cormac agreed. "I wouldn't have made it if I didn't have the Jeep. Whoever's got that Miata is lucky they got here early."

"That would be me." Glyn raised a glass, a tumbler with some amber liquid in it. "Seemed such a good idea to have a neat little convertible for a mountain drive. Ah well." His accent was cultured, precise.

I wonder what part of England he's from? You'll be sure to ask, won't you?

Before he could do so, a young Asian woman bustled in from the next room—the kitchen, by the glimpse of tile and stainless steel appliances visible through the swinging door. She was dressed in a practical T-shirt and jeans with a smudged apron over them, and her silky black hair was tied up in a sloppy bun.

"And that's Frannie, she's a friend helping out for the weekend," Beck said.

Frannie donned a big smile. "Hi, nice to meet you. Food'll be out in a sec; how is everyone doing for drinks? What can I get you, Cormac?"

"Club soda, thanks."

It didn't seem possible but her smile brightened even more, and she ducked back into the kitchen.

"What is it you do, son?" Monty asked Cormac, who smiled a little at the son. He pegged Monty as a certain kind of guy from a certain familiar demographic. One of his father's several careers had been leading backcountry hunting parties. His clients were usually rich and full of themselves, wanting to play tough guy without the work necessary to back up the appearance. When teenage Cormac started going along on the trips to help, guys like this would ruffle his hair and call him son. What kept him from getting too mad about it was knowing they'd die out there without his father holding their hands, figuratively speaking.

"Oh, this and that," Cormac said, letting his own drawl thicken. "Dad was a hunting guide. Family business."

Douglas Bennett had also been a bounty hunter specializing in supernatural creatures. Vampires, werewolves, and the like. That was the business Cormac had mostly kept up. His shooting days were behind him. He hoped.

"Well, how about that! Tell me, what's the biggest moose you ever shot? You ever go for bear?"

Cormac suppressed a grumble, and Amelia murmured, Patience. He'd been here five minutes and he was already exhausted. "I never kept track," he said. Now, if he'd asked how many vampires he'd staked...

Beck took a seat between Monty and Glyn, leaving Cormac at the opposite end of the table. Frannie swept in a moment later, somehow balancing three big platters in her arms. Glyn immediately rose to help her deposit them on the table. It turned out to be a great spread of southwest cooking: enchiladas, beans and rice, homemade tortillas, and all the fixings. Suddenly, Cormac was starving. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"I was expecting you'd make chow mein or something like that," Monty said, chuckling.

"Monty, hush," June said, then pressed her lips together in an apology.

Frannie's smile dropped for a second and she glared.

Vane's lip curled. "Is this chicken? I'm sorry, I thought I made clear that I'm vegan—"

Frannie held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. Turning on a heel, she retreated back to the kitchen and returned a moment later with an additional steaming-hot plate.

"Squash and quinoa-stuffed peppers. Organic." She set the plate before him with a flourish.

"Oh, uh. Thanks. It's because I have a deeper connection with the spiritual world if I don't rely on death to sustain me."

"You're welcome," she said pointedly, and took the last empty seat at the table.

Monty turned to Beck. "You let the help sit at the table with everyone else?"

"Oh my God, are you serious?" Lora exclaimed.

Beck said evenly, "As I've already told you, Frannie isn't ‘the help,' she's a friend who agreed to come in for the weekend and help me take care of things."

"Maybe you'd prefer it if she were in a uniform," Glyn said. "Go for the full Downton Abbey experience, hmm?"

"Don't get pissy with me," Monty glared back.

Beck was determinedly scooping food on her plate and passing dishes around. "I think we should all enjoy our dinner and think good thoughts for the séance later. Right, Vane?"

Vane shrugged. "We'll be channeling a murder victim, but sure. Good thoughts."

"I hear you put on a pretty good show," Monty said.

Cormac wished the guy would be quiet. Shovel some food into his mouth. Not that that would necessarily stop him talking.

"You can watch the videos on YouTube," Vane said.

The man huffed. "An internet show is one thing, real life is something else."

"He's got a million subscribers," Lora said. "How many do you have?"

"We don't have a YouTube channel," June said a bit stiffly. "Monty doesn't think it's worthwhile. We've had... discussions about it."

Lora opened her mouth as if she might argue, then thought better of it. "I see."

"We do just fine without the internet," Monty said. "Keeps us honest." June's hand clenched on her fork.

"This is great, Frannie," Cormac said, indicating his plate full of enchilada. Frannie smiled gratefully across the table.

June jumped in. "Glyn, I understand you're a writer?"

"Cat's out of the bag," he said.

"Have you been published?" Vane asked, like he was expecting to catch him out in some deception.

"A bit." He studied the pattern in the fork's handle.

"Glyn writes bestselling mysteries," Beck said. "Ten novels so far, is it?"

"Twelve." He smiled wryly.

"They're really good, you should try them," Beck continued. "They're about a detective who used to be in the army before joining the police in London. I feel like I'm actually there when I read them."

"The invitation to come visit me in Brighton still stands," Glyn told her.

"Oh, that would be nice. Once I get this place going, we'll talk."

"Are you going to write about the murder of Tobias?" Lora asked.

Glyn said, "It's my understanding the trial concluded Tobias Wright's brother Jacob killed him in self-defense. That there was an actual shootout. So perhaps technically not a murder."

Cormac could almost sense Amelia leaning forward, intent on the conversation. A little bit frustrated that she couldn't jump in herself, without his help.

"Whatever you call it, it's a violent death," Lora explained. "They were both in love with the same woman, and Tobias threatened Jacob if Clarice wouldn't marry him."

Beck shook her head. "The story Jim's family passed down is that Clarice had agreed to marry Tobias, but then Jacob threatened to cut him off from the inheritance. That was what they had the shootout over."

Vane said, "And these are the questions we hope to find answers to. This is the perfect subject for a séance."

I'm looking forward to this séance. We'll see if he has any true abilities beyond showmanship.

All they had to do was get through dinner.

"It's a load of bunk," Monty muttered under his breath, but not really under his breath. Vane glared.

Mr. Connor doesn't seem much interested in making friends.

Cormac was feeling downright sociable in comparison, in fact.

In another valiant effort to haul the conversation to back to something resembling civility, Glyn said, "Jim was related to the Wrights, yes?"

"Their sister Alice was his great-great—I think it's just two greats—grandmother. She'd married and moved away by then so never really got the whole story. But that's Tobias's pocket watch sitting on the mantle. That's stayed with the house this whole time."

They all glanced through the archway to the parlor, where they could make out the mantle over the fireplace, and the antique watch displayed on a polished wooden stand right in the center, pride of place.

"Perfect," Vane murmured.

Frannie served flan for dessert, which inspired a round of very small talk about flans of dinners past, and finally the meal was over and the guests stood to make their way back to the parlor. Out of habit, Cormac started stacking plates and gathering silverware.

Beck moved to intercept him. "Oh Cormac, you don't have to do that—"

"I'm happy to help." Gave him something to do besides sit there not talking.

"Your father did raise you right, didn't he?"

Cormac wasn't so sure about that. His father had receded to memory, and most of those memories involved guns and a command to continue in the family business—hunting.

His first kill was the werewolf who had killed Douglas Bennett.

These days, he wanted to stay out of prison more than he wanted to continue his father's monster-hunting legacy. He had a lingering sense that his father would have been disappointed, so he tried not to think about him at all.

Beck, Frannie, and he cleared the table, carrying plates and empty serving dishes to the kitchen. The rest of the house had preserved the late Victorian aesthetic, but the kitchen was modern, built for commercial use, with a wide three-section sink, stainless-steel appliances, lots of counter space, neat racks and shelves for pots, pans, professional-grade chef knives in a big wooden block, serving trays, dishes, glassware. The floor was classic black and white tile, with matching backsplashes behind the sink and stove.

A window over the sink looked out over the back of the house. The snow was still coming down hard. Large flakes beat against the glass.

"We're going to be snowed in all weekend," he muttered.

"Oh, it'll be cozy!" Beck said, rather desperately.

Cormac had noticed a guitar case leaning on the wall in the parlor. Monty Connor's, presumably. A cozy weekend? Maybe, but definitely a long one.

He said, "Must have taken a lot to get this place up and running."

"I'm mortgaged to the hilt," she said softly, and her smile thinned. "If next summer's tourist season doesn't pan out, I might lose it all." She had presented such a cheerful, confident picture. She couldn't very well confess worries to the people she was trying to win over.

"I thought you inherited the place from your husband?"

"I did. But Jim sold off most of the land and the water rights that went with it—you know how screwed up those old water agreements get. Turns out Jim didn't keep up with his inheritance quite as well as he let on. Had a whole lot of business debt he never told me about. He was trying to do the right thing, pay it all off with what he got from the land. But, well... a house like this gets expensive." She waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind, nothing anybody can do about it now, is there? Let's just go and have a good time. Let me get you a drink." She bustled out.

Back in the dining room, Vane had taken over the table, spreading a black-on-black embroidered cloth over it and drawing a number of arcane items from a travel case.

Let's stay and watch, Amelia suggested eagerly. If he's going to be setting up wires or sound effects, now is when he'll do it.

Cormac leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Vane arranged a couple of silver candlesticks, a trivet shaped like a pentagram—

"Please, I need privacy!" Vane insisted.

He's definitely setting up wires and sound effects.

Cormac could imagine her rubbing her hands together. He slouched away from the wall and continued on to the parlor...

Where Monty was in the big armchair by the fireplace, tuning his guitar. June sat nearby, beaming, looking friendly but coming across just as stiffly as she had through dinner. They made a calculated picture of archetypal folksiness. Cormac almost kept going, to the foyer and straight out of the house, to try to drive out of here despite the accumulating snow. Maybe there were more dishes to wash. Maybe he could go to bed, except there was still the séance to get through.

Sometimes he really hated people.

He settled into one of the wingback chairs as far away from the fireplace as he could get. Lora was on a sofa, checking her phone. Beck stood nearby, hands clasped nervously. Glyn was by one of the windows, tumbler in hand. Cormac couldn't recall him actually taking a drink from it, not even during dinner.

"What should I start with, darlin'?" Monty said to June in an affected drawl as he strummed.

"Oh, let's go with a classic!" She delivered the scripted response, and the random strumming turned into a series of chords—for "Home on the Range."

Cormac slumped back in the chair and sighed.

"Not a fan?" Glyn murmured.

Cormac wasn't a fan of easy sentimentality. "Around the time this was written, the Great Plains bison population was already crashing from overhunting. Buffalo weren't roaming all that much, it turns out." The home the song talked about didn't exist, which might have been part of the point, but that wasn't how guys like this sang it.

"Well, that takes some of the romance out of it. I suppose people still expect the local color."

The song ended, and Monty segued into the next one. "‘Oh bury me not on the lone prair-eeee...'"

Cormac wasn't getting paid enough for this.

A thin, wind-borne howling cut through a pause in the song, and the curtains by the nearby window rustled in a draft. The storm was worsening, beating snow against the sides of the house. Couldn't have been more atmospheric if the Connors had planned it.

Lora shook her phone and looked up. "Connection's down. Is anyone else getting a signal?"

Monty stopped mid-line and glared.

Beck said, "It's satellite internet way out here. Connection's dodgy at the best of times, and with this storm, well... nothing I can do about it." Lora heaved a frustrated sigh.

Then the lights flickered.

"And... maybe I'll get some candles out, just in case."

"Perfect weather for a séance, anyway," Glyn said with a grin.

"But if I can't post about it what's the point?" Lora replied.

Monty strummed harder, letting a discordant note twang out before settling back into the classic folk-western three-note rhythm. "This all reminds me of a story you might have heard, about a group of pioneers making the dangerous trek to California, and the storm that trapped in them in a place we now call Donner Pass—"

Oh no, Amelia said. You were right. We should have turned around and gone home when we had the chance.

Vane appeared in the doorway to the dining room and clapped once, loudly. June jumped, Beck gasped and dropped the handful of candles she'd brought in from the foyer, and another bad chord strummed out.

Vane had made a quick change of clothes, trading his plain long-sleeved shirt for a leather vest, revealing complex tattoos covering both arms. Amelia spotted a number of arcane symbols, alchemical notations, and figures in a dizzying spiral. Hard to be sure if it actually meant anything.

"If you'll come join me, I believe the spirit plane is calling to us." He glared menacingly from under arched eyebrows, and the rings he wore seemed to make his hands flash.

Well, he certainly had his shtick down.