Chapter 16

He strode away from his ex-wife. The fact that she was trapped in a cage didn't bother him the way it probably should have. Then again, he knew now that death wasn't the end.

Not that he cared if she died. After all, he was dead, so her dying wouldn't exactly be the end of things.

And yet here he was, helping her stay alive.

Alan paused at the spiral staircase that led up and out of the dungeon. The question was, why did he, Alan Horatio Walker, continually come whenever she called for help? He was, after all, bound to the voodoo queen. A move he regretted.

So why could Bree, someone he'd cut himself off from, still drag his undead soul around wherever she wanted?

Her words floated through the wall as she spoke to the red-headed beast in the cage next to her.

"I hate putting my faith in that man."

His face tightened, irritation flaring in him. He was the best lawyer that Seattle had ever seen until he'd died. The best. Everyone turned to him when they needed help getting off the hook. But no, not Bree. She'd never trusted him.

And that right there was why he kept coming back when she called. He was sure there was some sort of unfinished business between them—he had to prove that he could help her—he had to prove that she could trust him. Because it surely was not about love. That was long gone, if it had ever been there to begin with. She'd been cute and young when they'd left Savannah, a picture-perfect wife for an up-and-coming partner in the law firm he'd been hired into.

That was what had been important. That, and getting out of Savannah. He should have stayed out, because look at what had happened to him when he'd gone back to that god-forsaken town?

He'd ended up dead and dealing in the world of the supernatural.

He shook off the old memories and hurried up the stairs, through the wall, through a pantry and kitchen and out across an empty main room.

A quick glance around and then he made his way toward another set of stairs leading up. His mind wandered as he made his way toward the next floor. He muttered to himself under his breath. "If I can help Bree, maybe I'll be free from Marge. Free to do what I want finally."

"Or you could just be dead."

He paused at the first landing and the ghost who stood there. An older man with a scar across his forehead. No, not a scar, a wound that gaped here and there when he spoke. His body was lightly transparent, as all ghosts were.

"I'm already dead," Alan said. "Obviously."

"Of course, but not dead, dead. You haven't moved on."

Alan rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't have time for a chat. I have things to do."

"Are you sure?"

With a huff, Alan surged forward, pushing the other ghost aside. "Unless you can help me find a sheet of music of some sort, you aren't much help at all."

"Ah. That will be in the top turret, inside the chest made of oak."

Alan turned in time to see the ghost point in the opposite direction Alan was headed, then flicker and disappear. He didn't thank the ghost. That wasn't his style. Though perhaps he did feel a bit of a twinge. Maybe he should have thanked the ghost. How long would he have been looking without that tidbit?

"Thanks," he muttered into the air.

He hurried in the direction the other ghost had pointed, and made his way through the castle. The first set of stairs led to a nearly empty room. He strode past the few people in there—vampires, a woman in a sheer dress, and that Frenchman whom Bree had briefly dated, none of whom looked his way, much as it irritated him—until he found another set of stairs leading up.

He looked over his shoulder at the Frenchman as he bent his head to the woman's lips, the woman who looked weirdly like Bree. Like Bree, only harder, with sharper lines and angles to her face. He wasn't sure that she was prettier, though by the way the French guy looked at her, he seemed to think so.

Wrinkling up his nose, he tore his gaze away and hurried up the steps, his feet silent on the stone treads. "Bree always had terrible taste in men."

"You should know, yes?"

He paused on the threshold of the door to the top room.

Spinning around, he fully expected to see the ghost of the older man again. But the stairs behind him were empty. Where had that voice come from? Didn't matter, he defended himself regardless, as was his style.

"Since me, she's chosen poorly. First that blacksmith, then the Frenchman." He stepped through the doorway and into a room piled with items. There were several chests, all made of wood of some sort.

"How am I supposed to know what oak looks like? I'm not a damn woodsman, I'm a lawyer!" he muttered.

"She never chose you. You know that."

That voice again. Who was it? He spun quickly, hoping to catch the speaker, but there was no one behind him. "Go away."

"No."

Alan frowned at the spot where the voice seemed to be coming from—inside of him. Logical to the core, he took a half step back. "I have finally lost what is left of my mind, and my personality has split."

"No, you have not. I am your…I'd say guardian angel is the closest thing. But maybe your conscience is a better word."

He couldn't help the laugh that erupted out of him. "Please! I don't need anyone telling me how I should or should not be feeling."

"No? You are questioning yourself. Wondering at your connection to your ex-wife? You truly don't know why you are still tied to her? Perhaps I am the part of you that knows why."

Alan fought the desire to squirm. The more the voice spoke, the more familiar it sounded, deepening in tone. Like a voice from his past. "Who are you really?"

"I've taken on the voice of someone you respected. Very few people in your life have had that dubious honor."

And just like that, the voice solidified into a low bass rumble that made Alan's knees more than a little weak. "Sir?"

"Hmm. Formal, but it will do."

Sir. His great uncle had been one of few who'd earned his respect. When he was younger, he'd looked to him for guidance. He swallowed hard. "So you…you're a figment of my imagination?"

"Yes and no. I won't speak to you for long. Just enough to make sure you are on the right path."

Alan waited for more, and when there was none, he turned and looked at the variety of trunks in the room. No matter that it made his heart race in an unpleasant way, feeling judged by his great uncle, he did have a task ahead of him.

"Focus," he muttered.

There had to be at least a dozen trunks in the room. All locked. Was he supposed to try them all?

An irritated sigh slid out of him as he poked his head into the first trunk. But he couldn't see in the dark any more than a living person could. He wasn't magic, just dead.

"Shit." He pulled back and stared around the room. There was no way for him to physically affect anything unless Marge or someone like her wanted to stuff him in a body again. He'd tried a thousand times since he'd died on his own to affect things, with no luck. Even something simple like making a pencil roll or a feather float. Nothing.

There was no way he'd be able to open a chest—oak or not—without some outside help.

"You could just give up."

"I thought you were supposed to be my conscience." Alan snapped back.

"Correct. But I am just a part of you. And you have been known to give up on things. To give up on people, when the going gets too hard."

Alan glared at the room. "I need her help, so I'll help her. It's a deal. I don't go back on deals."

"But you and I both know that Marge has lost her hold on you. You lied to Bree about needing her help. Now, you're lying to yourself about being tied to Marge. Why is that?"

He shook his head and started for the door. "I'm losing my mind."

What he needed was to find someone in the castle who could see him. Someone he could convince to help him with the chests. Maybe a servant?

That was a possibility.

He made his way back down to the main level of the castle. The woman who looked like Bree was gone, as was her boy toy.

There were three men standing in the middle of the room, drinking red wine.

Alan moved toward them, hoping one of them could see him. He did a slow circle around the men, noting that one pair of eyes darted his way.

Well, that was handy.

He snapped his fingers in front of the man's face. "Hey. I need you to open something for me," Alan said.

The man's eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing. He turned his back on Alan, which only riled him further. Ignoring him as if he weren't worthy of being looked at.

"Listen, it's not really for me. It's for…"

What did he call Bree? She wasn't his wife anymore. She surely didn't see him as a friend, which did a weird thing to his insides that he chose to ignore. "My ex-wife. She's trapped in the dungeon downstairs, and the bars are melodic. I need to find the sheet music that will open her cage."

The man's shoulders tightened, but he smiled and laughed with his friends. Again, as if he couldn't even hear Alan.

Alan turned away. He was going to have to try someone else. But who would be able to hear him? What a mess this was. Strangely, he didn't want to let Bree down.

That's better.

The man who'd seen him spoke; his voice deeply accented. "Excusez moi, my friends. I have a matter I must attend to. Watch the doors for our host, and if she comes, engage her. Tell her I had to leave the castle."

Alan turned and looked back as the two men who couldn't see him nodded and slid back into their conversation.

"Where?" The one who could see Alan spoke quietly.

"You're going to help?"

The man nodded. "Quickly."

Hurrying, Alan led the way. "Here, up the stairs. There is a room with many chests. It's the oak wood chest that holds the correct music," Alan said. Pride flitted through him. Bree had no faith in him, but he'd show her. He'd show her just how trustworthy he could be.

Oh. Brilliant as usual.

Alan glanced at the man walking up the stairs, but he was not the one who'd spoken. He took a more in-depth look at the guy. Dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, and a lean body. Traditionally handsome with sharp, angled features and clear skin. He seemed comfortable running up the stairs, almost faster than Alan could keep up.

Alan slid through the door first—literally. "Hurry. I think…I think there is a time limit maybe."

He had no idea if that was true, but Bree kept getting herself into close scrapes. This time was probably no different.

"Of course there is," the man growled. Growled.

The door clicked open, and Alan saw the man's fangs. Shit. "You're a vampire."

"I am. Not many of us can see ghosts, lucky for you that I am one such. Now, where is the oak chest?"

"Well, I don't know which one is oak," Alan said, exasperated. "That's something you should know, not me. I have done my part."

The vampire looked at him, a frown creasing his brow. "You are her ex-husband?"

Alan bristled. "What of it?"

"I can see why she got rid of you."

He snorted. "I divorced her, thank you very much."

The vampire shook his head. "More the fool are you. Women like your ex-wife are rare, like gems in the ocean."

What the hell? Did he want to bang Bree too? Not that he cared about that. Not one bit. But it seemed like the men around her now…they thought she was special. And not because of her hair or eyes, or ass.

Alan stood back and watched as the vampire quickly made his way around the room, touching the chests, and finally stopping at one. "This, I think is it." He put his hand to the oak chest, snapping the lock off simply by grabbing it and yanking.

Inside the chest was a stack of paper. "Is that it?" Alan tried to lean over to see what he could, but the vampire was physically in his way, and he couldn't see.

"There is a folder with a sheet of music here, yes. And she is in the dungeon now? Evangeline said she was unable to take her from the graveyard in Savannah. That the plan was off. That Bree had not been brought here."

Alan put his hands on his hips. "I think I would recognize my ex-wife. She's down there. They got her next to the big, red-bearded fae man. Igor or something."

The vampire pulled a folder with papers and a sheet of music out of the stack of papers and tucked it all into his shirt. "Come, take me to her."

Alan was going to point out that he'd just take the sheet of music, but that wouldn't work either seeing as he couldn't actually touch anything. With a sigh, only rolling his eyes twice, he made his way to the dungeon stairs that were behind the pantry in the kitchen.

"Wait!" the vampire growled as Alan walked through the racks of wine.

"Well, I don't have to wait. I don't know how to open the secret passage. I just walk through," he huffed.

And with that he made his way down the steps.

So that's it? You've done your best for her? Again? His great uncle's voice was sharp and full of derision.

Pausing in the middle of the stairway, he looked back toward the entry point. There was a latch on the inside. Why bother going back to help the vampire, who would in turn help Bree? He struggled with that question. Because he didn't really want to help her. He wanted…

To hurt her.

But that was who he'd been before. "I am doing my best, or at least better," he said under his breath.

Back to the top of the stairs he went, and searched the stair side of the door. The latch was fairly simple, it looked like it just needed to be lifted. He marked it on his body for height, then he stepped through the door to see a furious vampire on the other side. "Waist height. Look for something to pull, the latch is simple." He pointed to the height the latch was on the far side, indicating its position on the right-hand side of the door.

The vampire ran his hands over the pantry items, settling on a bottle of wine. He pulled it carefully, a bottle of cheap rosé that Alan had no doubt would be untouched forever given that they were in some part of France. Clever.

The door swung outward, just enough for the vampire to slip through. He closed the door behind himself and then he was hurrying down the steps.

"I've brought help," Alan called out. "I hope you appreciate it!"

He turned the last corner, seeing Bree's face as she took in the vampire he'd brought with him.

She paled and backed away from the bars until she was pressed against the far wall. "Alan. That's the vampire who swore he'd kill me if I ever stepped foot in France again."

A weird thing happened to Alan, a sensation he'd never felt before on behalf of anyone but himself, and he didn't like it, not one bit.

Horror.