Eight

In the back of his mind, Amelia swore. It startled him.

Cormac grinned, deciding that yes, he definitely should have driven away when he had the chance. "You already know I'm going to say I have no idea how it got there. Somebody planted that."

"I wanted to see your reaction. You don't react to much of anything, do you?"

Cormac spread his arms in a show of agreement. After the shit he'd seen? After helping save the world from a demonic invasion and volcanic destruction? After carrying around the soul of a Victorian wizard in his mind for years? This didn't scare him, and he was annoyed that Glyn somehow thought it should.

The better question in his mind: Why was Glyn trying to frame him? Only one answer: he might have killed Monty himself. But why?

Maybe just to see if he could.

Glyn spoke to the others, "I'll just go put this out in the garage with Mr. Connor, for safekeeping."

June's voice pitched high as she called, "Are we just going to let him stand there like nothing's wrong? He did it!"

"The knife was in his room," Glyn said. "The other doesn't necessarily follow. He's right—someone might have planted it."

"Someone like you?" Cormac said, and Glyn made a little nod as if to say, touché.

"I can't stand this. I can't trust any of you. I'm locking myself in my room until the police get here." June stormed back up the stairs, and a moment later a door slammed.

"Probably for the best," Beck said nervously. "Maybe we should all just stay in our rooms."

And wait like a lamb for the slaughter? No, absolutely not.

Glyn came down the stairs and brushed past Cormac, pointedly meeting his gaze as he passed through the foyer. Cormac followed.

"You watch me, I watch you," Cormac said flatly, to Glyn's look of inquiry.

"Or you murder me when you get me alone in the carriage house?"

Cormac huffed. "How stupid do you think I am?"

Glyn turned his back on Cormac, an obvious snub. He wasn't afraid.

The temperature in the garage was frigid; their breath fogged. Glyn did exactly what he said he was going to do, setting the towel-wrapped knife next to the shrouded body.

They both stood a moment, regarding the bundle. If you didn't know it was a body, you might think it was a tarp, maybe a rolled-up carpet. Since the two of them had put it there, it was easy to see which end had the shape of a head, and which end tapered to feet.

There's another spell I know, Amelia said. Not to summon the spirit, but a scrying spell.

They'd never get enough time alone to set it up and go through with it. Not with Glyn watching. He felt a sigh of agreement from her.

Perhaps we could bring him in on it.

Unless he was the murderer. Cormac wasn't turning his back on the man.

If he is the murderer, then the spell should be especially effective with him standing right there.

Tempting.

"Why were you searching Mr. Connor's coat?" Glyn asked as they turned back for the house.

Cormac's first impulse was to blow him off; he didn't need to tell this guy anything. But he said, "There was something in the front pocket. Some papers, I think. I didn't get a chance to look the first time, and when I went back for it..." He shrugged. He should have just looked the first time. Lesson learned.

"Papers revealing motive, you believe?" Glyn said. "Or were you trying to cover your trail?"

"I keep telling you, if I'd done it you never would have found the knife."

They went back to the house. The sun was setting—where had the day gone? From the side of the house he could see the front drive, the cars parked under mounds of snow like igloos, the pine trees beyond weighted down with the stuff. Maybe the authorities would get here by morning, or maybe they'd be stuck for another day, hurling suspicions and accusations. Cormac wasn't sure they'd survive it.

He didn't realize he'd paused, watching the late afternoon sun cut through the forest, until Glyn stopped beside him, looking out at the same scene.

"Can I ask you a question?" Glyn asked.

"Why stop now?"

"Do you believe in Vane's performances? In séances, ghosts, all the rest of it?"

That wasn't a simple yes or no question. It would definitely take too long to explain, standing out here in the cold.

He chuckled a little. "Two of my best friends are werewolves. So yeah, some of it."

"Werewolves? Really? Hm. Then you think Vane really contacted Tobias Wright?"

"Or what was left of him. Ghosts aren't... people. They're reflections. Memories. I'm not sure what they are."

They hadn't worn coats out, and the cold was biting. Cormac was feeling it; Glyn hugged himself. The stars would be glorious on a night like this, the clear sky after a storm.

"Then you think it might be possible to contact Mr. Connor, to learn what happened?"

"I think it might be possible to learn what happened." He studied the author, but the man was as unreadable as ever. British reserve, or something else.

Was he worried about Cormac discovering the truth?

"Let's get inside," Glyn said. "My lungs are freezing."

In the kitchen Frannie was putting together trays of food.

"It's just sandwiches," she said. "I didn't feel up to doing much else."

"It looks perfect," Glyn assured her.

"So you two decided not to kill each other?"

Cormac glanced at Glyn, who glanced back wryly. Cormac had a sinking feeling he was going to have to have it out with the guy at some point. He missed his guns less and less as time went on, but he might have wished for a handgun under his pillow tonight.

"Here, let me help you with that," Glyn said, moving to the sink to wash his hands first.

The others, except for June, had gathered in the dining room. Vane and Lora were side by side, hand in hand. Beck stood pensively by the window. No one made a move toward the sandwiches.

Frannie had a separate, smaller tray prepared. "I'll just take this up to June, then."

If anything, they were looking more unhappy and uncomfortable than even this morning. The shock of seeing the body hadn't worn off. Neither had the shock of knowing that one of them had done it. Would the murderer strike again, to cover their tracks?

Or perhaps the ghosts in this place were lonely and wanted someone to sing them morose songs for eternity.

That was a really disconcerting thought.

Frannie returned with the tray, still with all its food. "She said she wasn't hungry."

Are we hungry? Cormac prodded Amelia. She agreed that they weren't. They politely took the offered food, and picked at it. Lora went through a glass of wine and started on another. As appealing as the self-medicated numbness sounded, Cormac needed to stay sharp. No pun intended.

They finally gave up, and Frannie and Beck cleared the table and returned leftovers to the kitchen. When she returned, Beck stood at the dining room table, hands clasped before her.

"I've decided... I think June is right, and everyone should stay in their rooms until Sheriff Andrews and his crew get here in the morning."

Vane leaned forward. "I could try another séance. I'm getting close, I know it—"

Lora put a hand on his arm, and he stilled.

"On the contrary, I think it would be better for us to wait in the parlor, together," Glyn said.

No one sneaking around, no one getting up to anything. Cormac was annoyed to discover that he agreed.

"I can't do it," Frannie said. "I can't sit here staring at each other waiting for something to happen. Beck's right. Good night." She said this in a rush and fled.

"We lock our doors, nothing bad can happen, right?" Beck seemed to be trying to convince herself.

"Locks don't matter in a haunted house," Vane said.

"Great, now I'm not going to sleep at all," Lora muttered. "I really want to go home."

Impossible, of course.

Vane stood, held out his hand, and Lora took it as he helped her to her feet.

"Sleep well," he said wryly to the others. Hand in hand, they went through the parlor and up the stairs.

Glyn watched them go. "I'm trying to decide if one or both of them would be willing to create a ghost, if they couldn't find one for their séance."

"Oh Glyn, really," Beck said. But she glanced after them with her brow furrowed.

Cormac was still betting on the man who just happened to find a knife in Cormac's room. "I'm all right with the two of us sitting in the parlor staring at each other all night."

"Indeed," Glyn said, studying him with a focused gaze that made Cormac nervous.

Beck said, "I'm not going upstairs till you two get to your rooms."

"Don't trust us?" Cormac said with a smirk.

"You two are the ones in this house I know are capable of killing someone. The thing is, you two have the least reason to do it."

Whereas Beck might have had the most, and she knew it.

Glyn went to the sideboard and put a finger of liquor in a tumbler. "Well then, a nightcap for me and off to bed. The sooner morning comes the sooner we can put this behind us."

As if Cormac would be able to sleep.

Beck scattered the ashes in the fireplace and turned out lights. The three of them went upstairs. On the third floor, Cormac and Glyn stood at their respective doors, across the hallway from each other. Waiting for the other to enter his room and shut the door first.

"Well then," Glyn said flatly. "Good night."

"Guess so."

Neither of them moved.

For God's sake just get in the room.

He pushed open the door, stepped in with all the leisurely saunter of a western stereotype. Matched Glyn's gaze as the Brit did likewise. Finally, at last, they shut the doors.

On the shelf next to the bed, the name glared out from the row of books. GLYN FARROW.

Why the hell was he letting this guy get under his skin?

Cormac's duffel bag had been moved. Probably the contents rifled through as well. He could see where the dresser had been shifted to hide the knife, by whoever had done it, and to find it again. Who'd had time to sneak the weapon into his room? Everybody.

He sat on the bed and tried to sort out the day's activities. Frannie was the only one who hadn't been upstairs—but no, she'd come up when everyone else did, when Glyn grandly announced he was searching rooms. At some point each of them had come upstairs to change clothes.

Cormac kept coming back to Glyn, who had so grandly appointed himself the amateur detective in charge. As a distraction?

And he keeps coming back to you.

There was a noise at the door. Small, subtle. The slide of metal against metal. The soft thud of a lock turning over.

Someone had the key to the old-fashioned lock in the door.

Cormac jumped off the bed and grabbed the door handle. It wouldn't turn. He shook it, rattling the door on its hinges. The house might have been old, the hardware on the door might have been original, but it was solid. Didn't budge.

He fell to the floor, pressed his face to the gap at the bottom of the door, hoping to see out, any detail. He just saw the shadow of feet walking away. No telling whose.

"Goddammit," he muttered, hitting the floor with his fist. He rolled back and stared up at the ceiling. His pulse raced, and there was nothing he could do about anything.

Breathe, my dear. Just... breathe. I want to see you.

He unclenched his fists and closed his eyes.

Before he opened them again on the mindscape of his ideal mountain valley, he heard pacing. A long skirt swishing against the grass. A frustrated sigh. When he looked, he saw Amelia, her hair pulled away from her face and hanging long down her back. Her blouse was mussed as if she hadn't changed it in a couple of days—and why that detail? Why should her imagined self ever be anything other than perfect? Because their minds were in disarray. His own jeans were faded. His T-shirt itched. He rolled out an imaginary kink in his imaginary shoulders.

She stopped. Snarled a little. "I went to prison for a murder I didn't commit once, I don't intend to do so again."

He was tired. How could he be this tired? He settled on the grass and leaned up against the tree that always seemed to be right there for him to lean up against.

"Aren't you going to say something? Do something? Anything?" Her anger made her flushed. She glowed. She was gorgeous, like an old painting. If he told her that right now, she'd scoff at him. Tell him he was distracted and irrational.

"Yeah. I just need a minute." A minute to not think about it. A minute to just... let whatever he was supposed to be feeling wash over him. If he let himself actually feel it, he might never stop screaming.

The fight went out of her all at once. His exhaustion, spilling on to her. They could never avoid each other's moods, here. She sank to the grass beside him, and her expression turned beseeching.

Suddenly, she seemed young. She was terrified and trying very hard to hide it. "Whatever happens, we're together. You have no idea how much that means to me."

"Yes, I do." He opened his arms and drew her into an embrace. She gave a little sob, quickly cut off, repressed. But he heard it. Kissed the top of her head, because it gave him comfort. Maybe it would comfort her, too. The weight of her—the imagined and no-less-real feeling weight of her—anchored him.

"We'll go mad," she murmured. "We could stay locked here in our minds forever, go mad... and that wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it?"

Right now, it sounded pretty good. The length of her, lying half on top of him, her arms around him. God, he wanted her. He could shift a little, slide his hand down her hip, put his leg between hers—

"We're not going to take this lying down, are we?" she said abruptly.

He chuckled. "Oh hell no."