Justice

Justice by Sara Bell

Torquere Press www.torquerepress.com

Copyright ©2007 by Sara Bell First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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November 7, 2007 "Maggie." Marc pounded his fist against her office door, harder than he needed to but more gently than he wanted. "Damn it, open this door before I break it down." He heard her footsteps, slow and casual, as if she couldn't care less that he was having a conniption fit. A few seconds later the bolt slid free, and then she was peering up at him. Her freckled cheeks were pink and her face was flushed. Her red curls were wet with sweat, like she'd just run five miles. Her frazzled appearance drained some of the anger out of him. "What were you doing? And since when do you lock your office in the middle of the business day?" It was as she was searching for an answer that Marc realized Maggie's blouse was buttoned crooked. She'd skipped a hole. "You don't really want her to answer that, Ace." Will came into view a second after he said it. He was grinning, and his pants were unzipped. Marc felt his own face color to match Maggie's. He was happy that his sister had found love—even though he was still creeped out she'd fallen for his best friend—but did they have to go around sneaking in nooners like a couple of horny teenagers? His lips fell into a hard line. "In case the two of you haven't noticed, we're trying to run a business around here. Is it too much to ask you to wait until the end of the work day to ... can you not..." "In other words, you want us to wait until five o'clock to have screaming monkey sex." Will zipped his fly with an 3

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unrepentant smile on his lean, angular face. He put his hands on Maggie's shoulders and winked at Marc. "I'd say yes, but you'll have to talk to your sister. The poor girl can't keep her hands off me." Maggie swatted at him, but there was no heat to it. Anyone looking at her would know she was crazy about the guy. She straightened her shirt as best she could and looked up at Marc. "Was there something you wanted or did you come barreling in here just to make sure I wasn't getting any?" "Could you please, please, please not talk about sex and you in the same sentence? Thinking about my baby sister and Mr. Hysterical Laughter over there is almost as bad as imagining Grandma and Grandpa going at it." The unwanted image floated into his brain and Marc wished he had a can of mental Comet to scrub it out. "Oh, God. I think I'm scarred for life." "Will, stop laughing like that before you give yourself a hernia." Maggie reached the end of her patience. She glared up at Marc. "You have two seconds. Start talking." He lifted up the card he'd almost forgotten he was still holding for her to see. "I found this under my pillow." "And?" "And? Is that all you have to say?" Some of the anger he'd felt when he'd found the card returned. "It's a tarot card." "Yeah, I see that. So?" "So, you know how I feel about these things." He was getting hot again. "They're nothing but a load of bullshit complete with pretty pictures." 4

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She narrowed her eyes. "Says the man who talks to ghosts for a living." "Whoa." Will held up his hands. "I'm getting out of here before the two of you take the gloves off." He kissed Maggie's cheek. "Go easy on him, slugger." He squeezed her arm, then slid out past Marc and headed down the hall. Maggie watched him go, her expression wistful. "That man has the best ass." "Could you stop lusting after Will long enough to focus, please?" Marc flicked the bottom of the card to get her attention back on him. She folded her arms over her chest. "What do you want me to say?" "You can start by telling me why you keep leaving this card in my room when you know how I hate these things." That brought her up short. "You think I left it for you?" He tamped down a sigh. "That's what I just said, isn't it?" "Let me see that." She snatched the card from his fingers and held it up to the overhead light. "The justice card." Her eyes went from the card, to him, and back again. "This doesn't make any sense." "Isn't that what I've been trying to say? You know I don't believe in this fortune telling crap, so why would you—" "Marcus, would you please stop yelling at me long enough to listen?" She'd used his full name, and her voice was calm and earnest now, the way it always was when she was dead serious about something. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. "Marc ... this card didn't come from my deck." 5

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His stomach started to churn. "You're sure?" She nodded. "This comes from an old Rider-Waite deck. I use a Llewellyn set." Since Marc didn't know one deck from the next, he didn't say anything, just kept silent and stared at the card in her hand. Maggie put her hand on his elbow and led him into her office, shutting the door behind them. Normally, Marc relaxed into the quiet chaos of Maggie's personal domain—the cluttered bookshelves, the paper heavy desk, the myriad of plants poking out of every corner. Now he felt cold and more than a little scared as he collapsed into the overstuffed chair in front of the desk. No easy feat to frighten a man who'd made a career out of chatting up the dead. Maggie perched on the edge of the desktop, the card still in her hand. "You say you keep finding this card in your room?" "Yeah." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. "For the last four days in a row. The first time, it was lying on my windowsill. I thought maybe you'd gone up to my apartment for something and accidentally left it there. I brought it down here and left it on your desk." "I never found it." "The next day I found it on top of my dresser, propped against Mom and Dad's anniversary picture." She pursed her lips. "Let me guess. You brought it back to my office." 6

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"Right, only to find it wedged in front of the toaster on my kitchen counter." He made a face. "That's when I tossed it in the trash." "And then found it under your pillow this afternoon." "You got it." He leaned back in the chair, weary in a way he couldn't explain. "I thought maybe you were trying to tell me something." "Not me, honey, but it's obvious someone is." She laid the card on the desk beside her. "You're sure it's this same card you keep finding?" "Positive. Same picture of the same guy wearing the same blindfold and holding the same scales." He lifted his eyes up to meet hers. "What does it mean?" "Just what it says. Justice." She braced her hands against the edge of the desk and leaned forward slightly. "If I were doing a reading for you, I'd look at all the cards in the hand and how they played with and against this particular card. Given the other cards, I'd say it could mean anything from you needed more balance in your life to something in the past you needed to reconcile." When he opened his mouth to speak, she held up one hand. "I know you don't believe in the tarot, and I promise I'm not trying to push my views on you. I just want you to understand what it could mean." She made a ticking sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "One card by itself though ... I'd say someone is sending you a message." "By someone, you mean a spirit." It wasn't a question. Maggie nodded. "Who else could it be? You keep your apartment locked, and none of our clients or staff members 7

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ever goes up there. You and I are the only ones with keys, and since I didn't do it..." "It had to be someone for whom locks pose no problem." He took a deep breath. Spirits he could handle. He'd been handling spirits since he was five years old. "You said someone was sending me a message. What kind?" "It's hard to say. At its most basic, the justice card can mean you're about to get a favorable ruling in a court case or you're about to resolve something you've long been struggling with. It can mean equality in a relationship or an objective decision you need to make." "I haven't been taken to court since Mrs. Simmons sued me for not making contact with her dead husband so she could tell him what a son-of-a-bitch he was for dying on her. And I don't have anything I've been struggling with or any unresolved decisions to make. As for personal relationships..." He gritted his teeth, a bad taste coming into his mouth. "You and I both know I don't do commitment." "You used to." Her tone was gentle now, sympathetic. "Before things went south with Dean." Dean's name sent a familiar stab of pain through his chest, but Marc pushed it back. "He's the last person I want to talk about right now." He straightened in his seat. "Since we've just ruled out all the aforementioned possibilities, tell me what else this card could mean." It was Maggie's turn to sigh. She let out a long, loud one before hoping off the edge of the desk and going around it to sit down in her creaky leather chair. She went quiet for a minute, the only sound the pounding of her fingertips against 8

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the metal desktop. Finally she said, "Let me ask you a question. How many spirits would you say you've crossed over?" The question threw him, and it took him a minute to answer. "In my lifetime, you mean? God Maggie, I'm thirty years old. I've probably sent hundreds into the light." "Let's just look at the six years since you opened up this practice," she said. "Have you crossed over anyone who didn't want to go? What about the spirits who didn't have the light to look forward to?" That gave him pause. Marc learned from an early age— almost as soon as he'd learned he could communicate with the dead—that Heaven and Hell were very real. Not every spirit had a bright, shiny reward waiting for him. Some spirits were evil, and those were the ones who understandably put up a fight. "Wait a minute. You think maybe some spirit sent this as a warning?" "I honestly don't know." She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, like she was cold even though the temperature was a modest fifty degrees out, unseasonably warm for December, even in Atlanta. "Sometimes this card can have a negative meaning, like maybe you're about to receive justice for a wrong you've committed in the past." "Like some karmic payback?" "Something like that." Maggie stopped rubbing her arms long enough to slide out the top drawer of her desk. She pulled out a velvet wrapped bundle and placed it on the desk between herself and him. 9

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Marc didn't need her to unwrap it to know what was in there. "I don't want you to read for me, Maggie." "It's the only way I can tell you for sure what that card could mean." She rested her hand on the still-wrapped deck of tarot cards. Her gray eyes were wide and unblinking. "I know why you're so against the tarot—why you're so afraid— but if you'd only give me a chance—" "Forget it, kiddo." Marc stood up, then came around the desk and gently pulled Maggie to her feet. He was five years older and a good foot taller than her, but he knew it was never enough to convince her he didn't need her protection. Marc kissed her forehead. "I'll figure this out, Magpie. Don't worry about me." "Easier said than done. I—" Whatever she was about to say was cut off as a sharp rap sounded on the door. A second later, it opened and Will stuck his head inside. Marc could see past him, to where the newest member of the team, Alex, Marc's assistant, was waiting. "Sorry to interrupt," Will said, "but a call just came in. Some guy in a little town outside of Athens claims the house he just inherited is haunted. He wants the full team to come out and investigate. Today, no less." "Did you explain to him that I have other cases to take care of first? Did you tell him there are other investigators who could probably take care of the problem for less money?" "I tried, but he wouldn't listen. Said he was willing to pay three times our regular fee, but only if we come today, and 10

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only if the great Marcus Elliot handles the situation personally." Marc frowned. He had to earn a living just like everyone else, but he wasn't in it for the money, not really. And he hated it when rich clients threw their weight around. He was about to tell Will to call the guy back and tell him to take a hike, when Maggie stopped him. "Sounds like he's desperate, Marc." She laid her hand on the crook of his elbow. "If he's willing to pay that much, he must be really scared." Marc chewed on his lip. Maggie had hit on his one weakness. He remembered all too well the helplessness he'd felt when his gift first manifested. The last thing he wanted was for some poor schlub to be a slave to the terror and uncertainty that once dogged him. Before he could stop himself, Marc said, "Call the guy back, Will. Tell him we'll be there by sundown." Will nodded, and Maggie wrapped her arms around him and gave him a squeeze. "You're doing the right thing. I'm sure of it." Marc hugged her back, feeling anything but certain. From the edge of the desk, he could see the justice card. Even though the character on the card was blindfolded, Marc got the feeling it was staring back at him. **** It was well past dark by the time they pulled into Darensville. Marc hated being late for anything, but it had taken them forever to get all the equipment packed and the 11

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whole team ready. Not to mention Maggie kept following him around, bugging him to let her do a reading and trying to stuff talismans and other good luck charms into his pocket. He'd finally laid down the law when he caught her sneaking a rabbit's foot into the inside pocket of his coat. She'd stopped talking to him after he'd so callously pointed out the damn thing hadn't been so lucky for the now three-footed rabbit. His sister aside, Marc admitted to himself he was dragging his feet for another reason. He hated haunted houses, if in fact this was a true haunting and not something else entirely. The something else he didn't want to think about, but as for the haunting ... he'd much rather deal with an enraged poltergeist or a spirit who was hanging around the battlefield where he'd died or lingering near a loved one. Those spirits who chose to hang on to a particular place—usually a musty old manor that looked like something out of an Addams Family episode—were almost always hard to cross over. Some of them didn't know they were dead, and some of them were simply too stubborn to move on. Then there were those who stayed for other reasons. Personal reasons. The kind of reasons that could get a guy as dead as the ghost he was working on if he wasn't careful. A chill ran down his spine, and he shuddered. "You okay?" Will turned from the main drag onto a gravel road. "You look a little green." "I'm fine." "If you say so." Will shot him a glance, then trained his eyes back on the road. "Look, if you aren't cool with me and Maggie..." 12

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"If I wasn't, it wouldn't do me a damn bit of good." Marc almost smiled. "My sister is a grown woman, and she knows what she wants. I can think of worse things than having Maggie fall for my best friend, a guy I've known and loved practically my whole life." Some of the starch went out of Will's posture. "Good. Because I really love her, you know? When we were growing up, she was this little pain in the ass who followed us everywhere and bugged the shit out of me. Then I realized I'd been looking at her for years without really seeing her. All of a sudden, she wasn't Maggie, your kid sister, she was Margaret Ann Elliot, beautiful woman." "If you start comparing her to a summer's day, I swear to God, I'll hurl." Will laughed. "Sorry. I get carried away when I talk about her, but I can't help it. Maggie's the one." He sobered. "I don't mean to rub your face in it." "Relax." Marc cuffed his shoulder. "Just because I've given up on happily-ever-after doesn't mean the rest of the world should. It makes me feel good to know you and Maggie are together. As long as your intentions are honorable, I'm cool with the two of you." "You can relax on that account. I'm going to marry her as soon as she quits being stubborn and tells me yes." Will took another turn, this road more gravely and uneven than the last. "It's not too late for you to get back into the game, you know." Marc bit back a groan. "Careful. You're starting to sound like your girlfriend." 13

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"Can I help it if the woman makes good sense?" Will lowered his voice. "I liked Dean. Hell, part of me still does, but he was a total bastard to treat you like he did. That doesn't mean every guy out there is just waiting to screw you over. Take Alex, for instance." Alex. Marc almost winced. It was no secret that Alex had a crush on him, which was the main reason he'd made the guy ride in the equipment truck with Maggie and not in the van with him and Will. Marc liked Alex. He was a good assistant and had a damn good chance of developing his fledgling skills as a medium into a power that would rival Marc's own, but Marc felt nothing for Alex save friendship. Period. "You take him," Marc said. "The kid is nine years younger than me, and we have nothing in common except we both see dead people. You and Maggie have got to stop trying to fix me up." "I'll let it go for now, but sooner or later, you're going to have to get back on the horse, my friend." "I date." "No, you don't. Dating implies getting to know someone." Will made a face, and though his eyes never left the road, the censure was clear. "You don't date. You pick up a string of losers for a quick fuck and then toss them out the minute they ask for round number two." Marc thought that was a bit harsh, but it was close enough to the truth that he didn't say anything. He pointed to a "Private Drive" sign up ahead. "Is that our turn?"

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Will glanced at the MapQuest page taped to the dash. "That's it." He made the turn. "The house should be at the end of this driveway." Marc thought calling the thing a driveway was a little too generous. Unlike the previous two roads, this one wasn't even gravel, just dirt. He leaned back against the seat, his eyes sharp on the horizon, even though he could see no further than the van's headlights allowed. "You sure this guy didn't give you any details about the job?" "I already told you, he refused to discuss it. Wouldn't even give his name, just said his place was haunted, and that's all he was saying until he could speak with you in person." Will shrugged. "Some clients want to deal straight with the boss." "Maybe, but if he wants us to take this case, he has to understand we're a team. He can't get me without taking us all." On that, Marc was firm. He was no prima donna. He needed Maggie and the others to keep him grounded as he worked to send the spirit on to its afterlife. If the client couldn't handle that, Marc had no problem taking a walk. "I don't think he's going to argue with you. The guy sounded twitchy as hell. My guess is he's desperate, just like Maggie said. At this point, I bet he'd still hire you if you showed up in a chicken suit and started belting out Sinatra tunes." Will brought the van to a stop, his eyes wide. "Damn. No wonder this guy can afford three times our usual fee." Marc followed Will's gaze to the three story Georgian monster in front of him. No less than ten hulking columns held up the triangular porch roof and framed an entryway wide enough to drive a Buick through. The massive brick box 15

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was lit up like a Christmas tree, light peeking through every window in the place. Marc felt a moment of sympathy for the house's owner. No amount of light could keep the ghosts at bay. He'd learned that lesson the hard way. "I won't take a dollar more than our regular fees, no matter how loaded our mystery employer happens to be." He unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed his leather backpack from the floor by his feet. Slinging it onto his shoulder, he reached for the door handle. "Come on. Let's go meet this guy, solve his problem, and get the heck out of dodge." Marc got out of the van just as Maggie and Alex were climbing out of the truck. Maggie had already unpacked her EMF meter and was holding it in her hand. While Alex unloaded the truck, Will busied himself removing the more sensitive pieces from the back of the van, and Marc looked around, taking in the location. Marc waited until most of the equipment was sitting in a neat stack at the edge of the drive before he made his way to the front door. Fresh drabs of mortar on the wide brick steps spoke of a recent repair, and the peeling columns were sheathed with scaffolding, as if someone were preparing to paint. Dodging a wealth of tools and cans, he approached the double doors, grabbed the simple loop knocker and gave it a solid rap. A moment passed, and then footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A second later, the right-side door swung wide, and a tall, black-haired guy stepped out. He was lean with a boyish face that made Marc think he was in his 16

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late-teens, early twenties. He was practically shaking, he was so nervous. Marc pasted a smile on his face and stuck out his hand. "I'm Marc Elliot. The rest of my team is out in the drive, readying the equipment." "I know who you are." The guy smiled then, and Marc noticed the crooked dimple on his left cheek. He clasped Marc's hand in a warm, tight grip. "It's good to see you again, Marc." Marc blinked twice before his rattled brain finally made the connection. "Brian? Brian Ryder? My God ... is it really you?" Brian laughed. "I'm not surprised you didn't recognize me. I was just a kid when you and Dean broke up." His smile faded. "I've missed having you around. I'm more sorry than I can say that things didn't work out between two of you." Marc let go of Brian's hand and took a step back, his mouth falling into a grim, hard line. "Your brother's choice, not mine. As I remember, he couldn't get away from me fast enough once he figured out what a freak I was." Brian started shaking his head. "It wasn't like that. I swear. If you'll listen for just a minute—" "What about Dean, anyway?" Marc wet his lips. "He'll be pissed as hell if he finds out you called me, especially to investigate—what did he so affectionately call it?—my 'psychic bullshit'?" "You're wrong about that," a deep, familiar voice said from behind Brian. The second door opened, and Dean Ryder stepped out. 17

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Dean's bluer-than-blue eyes seemed to hold him in place. "Brian isn't the one who called for your help." He took a deep breath, and with a shake of his black-haired head said, "I am." **** "Marc.... please ... for God's sake, wait a minute!" Brian caught up with him just as Marc was about to jump back in the van. A clearly confused Maggie, Will, and Alex were watching the two of them closely, but Brian seemed not to notice. He put his hand on Marc's arm and gently turned him so the two of them were facing. "Please, just listen for a minute. Dean wouldn't have called you if he didn't honestly need your help." "Honestly? Did you just use the word honestly?" Marc shrugged out Brian's grip. "There's nothing honest about this little set-up the two of you concocted to get me here. Dean didn't even give Will his name." "Because he knew you wouldn't come if he did," Brian said. "He should have at least given me the choice." "I told him the same thing, but you have to understand." Brian sidestepped to give Marc some space. "Dean is wracked with guilt over the way he treated you. He was afraid you'd say no and break his heart all over again." "I've got news for you, buddy: your brother doesn't have a heart. He proved that when he tossed me out on my ass eight years ago." Marc turned away from him and opened the van door. "Tell him to find someone else to take his case. I'm not interested." 18

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"He won't call anyone else." Brian's voice took on a note of desperation. "If you won't help him, there's no one who can. Dean's life is on the line here." Marc turned back around, his lips curling into a sneer. "A little dramatic, wouldn't you say?" "Not just no, but hell no." Brian looked him dead in the eye. "This thing has already tried to kill him once." He trembled, his eyes going all wet and shiny. "Next time, it might just finish him off." **** Dean was sitting on a sheet-covered sofa in the old parlor when the front doors opened wide. He expected to see Brian, coming to tell him that Marc had bolted. Not that Dean blamed him, and not that he didn't deserve it. He ran his fingers through his short, messy crop of hair. For all he knew, this haunting was payback for all the times he'd denied the existence of the Hereafter. Dean shook himself and looked to the foyer, ready to tell his brother it was okay, that he'd work something out. But instead of Brian, he saw Maggie Elliot standing in the hallway. "Hey, Dean." He stood up. "Maggie, hey." He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, then crossed the short distance between them. "It's been a long time. I almost didn't recognize you." "I understand." She shifted the bag she was carrying onto her left shoulder and then shook Dean's hand. The gesture wasn't exactly warm, but at least she wasn't letting him have it with both barrels. "I didn't recognize Brian until I saw you 19

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standing behind him. I put two and two together right about the time Marc stomped down the stairs and raced for the van." Dean winced. "Brian warned me to be honest with Marc from the beginning but I was too chicken sh—um, scared he'd tell me to go screw myself." He scrubbed his hand over his face. "I've really messed this up, haven't I?" "That depends on the reason why you called us, and just what it is you hope to get out of my brother." She pointed to one of the shrouded chairs in the parlor. "May I?" "What? Oh, please." He stepped aside so she could get by, then followed her into the parlor. He waited until she sat down, then took the chair opposite hers. "Sorry it's so dirty in here. We've been renovating the place." "So I see." Maggie set the bag at her feet and took a look around. "Is this your family home?" He shook his head. "Brian and I are partners in our own construction company." Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. "We specialize in buying old places, rehabbing them back to their former glory, and then selling them for a profit." Maggie gave him a genuine smile. "Like those house flippers on T.V.?" He managed a weak laugh, her manner putting him at ease. "Not nearly as glamorous, I'm afraid. There's a whole lot of sweat equity that gets edited out of a sixty-minute episode." "That, I don't doubt." She straightened her spine. "Before we get started, I should tell you Marc sent me in here." 20

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Dean sighed. "Let me guess: he wants you to tell me to fuck off." He blushed. "Pardon my French." "You can say fuck in front of me. I'm not a kid anymore." She smiled then, giving him a spark of hope. "After talking to Brian, Marc has decided to look over your case. That's where I come in." Too scared to say anything and mess up the fragile chance he'd been given, Dean only nodded. Maggie reached into her bag and pulled out a minirecorder. "It's standard procedure before we take a case for me to interview any and all prospective clients. You mind if I record what you tell me so I can play it back for Marc later?" "No." He wet his lips. "I guess he's doing this so he can have as little contact with me as possible, huh?" Cut like a knife to know that, but Dean had no one to blame but himself. "No, Dean." Maggie put a hand on his knee, and this time there was real affection in the touch. "He does this with all his clients. People who find themselves the subject of a haunting are often emotional, and understandably so. Unfortunately, those emotions can often interfere with Marc's ability to make contact with the entity. We've found it best to let me do the initial interview. It breaks the ice and helps the subject shed some of his anxiety. Usually Marc meets the client, then hands him over to me, then comes back in and talks to the client when I'm done. In your case—" "He took one look at me and went running." Maggie leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. "Do you blame him?" 21

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Dean was shaking his head before she even finished. "Not even a little bit." He hesitated. "I'm guessing he told you what happened." "Not at first. All I knew was one day you were a couple, and the next you weren't. It wasn't until a few years ago, when I started helping him with the business, that he told me all of it. For a long time, I think it was just too painful for him to talk about." Dean felt a wash of shame. "You must hate me as much as he does." "I love my brother, make no mistake, but I don't hate you. I'm willing to bet Marc doesn't either." Silently, Dean thought that was one bet she'd lose. He looked at her for a long, quiet moment, then said, "I have to admit, you've thrown me. If it were my brother, I'm not sure I'd be so understanding." "I'm not saying I like it, or that I won't cut your balls off and feed them to you if you hurt him like that again, just that I understand why you freaked out." She picked at the buttons of the tape recorder with the edge of her thumbnail. "It took me a long time to accept Marc's abilities as real, and my parents took even longer. To tell you the truth, I'm still not sure they're a hundred percent convinced he isn't just a little bit crazy, even if they love him too much to say so." She tilted her head to the side. "The fact that you were willing to ask for his help tells me you've changed your mind." "You have no idea." He crossed his legs, ankle over knee, his eyes never leaving her face. "For the record ... I'd like you 22

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to know why I went ballistic when Marc told me about his gift." "Only if you want to." "No, but I need you to understand." He hardened himself as best he could against the memories, then said, "My mother committed suicide. Left my father a note, took forty-seven sleeping pills, and an hour later she was dead." There was nothing phony about the horror on Maggie's face. "My God, how old were you?" "Seven. I'm the one who found the body." He folded his hands together in his lap, hoping to still the fine tremors running through his fingers. "My parents were devout Catholics, and I spent my whole life hearing that suicides go to Hell. You have no idea what that did to me as a kid, believing that my mom—who had bipolar disorder—was suffering in everlasting damnation." He wiped fresh sweat off his brow, even though it was turning cold in the drafty old house. "The only way I could deal with that was to convince myself it was all a lie. God, Heaven, Hell. All of it." "I can't imagine what torture you must've put yourself through." She pushed her hair out of her eyes with impatient fingers. "You'd done a bang up job of convincing yourself that life ended at death—" "And there was the man I loved calling me out on every lie I'd concocted to protect myself. I retaliated by trying to convince myself that Marc was an outright fraud. Told him to get the hell out and never look back." Dean swallowed. "By the time I realized what an idiot I was, Marc wanted nothing else to do with me." He forced away images of that dark time, 23

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lost without Marc and hating himself for his own stupidity. "I'll spare you the details, but I don't mind telling you that eight years and twenty-thousand dollars worth of therapy later, I've finally realized I can believe in God without believing my mother is roasting in a fiery pit somewhere. I'd just gotten my faith back when we bought this house." He could practically see Maggie switch into business mode. "Tell me what happened." She started the tape. "Nothing at first. This place had been empty for years when Brian and I bought it at auction six months ago. I don't know anything about the previous owners except they left a whole house full of furniture and personal items behind them. The place was a dusty old shrine when we took possession of it." He picked at a tiny hole forming on the knee of his jeans. "We put the good stuff in storage and then started to work on the remodel." "How and when did the haunting first manifest?" "It was small things, about three weeks into the job. Electrical equipment would fail for no reason, tools would come up missing, cold spots would form in certain parts of the house even though it was blistering hot outside." Dean shrugged. "I have a large crew, and everything that happened seemed to have a logical explanation. I chalked it up to antiquated wiring, tired workmen, and wonky insulation." He barely suppressed a shudder. "Then the accidents started." Maggie pulled a notebook set from her purse and balanced it next to the recorder on her lap. "Tell me about those." She uncapped her pen and held it poised over the page. 24

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"The first one came about two months into the job. My crew chief fell through the floor up on the third level, crashed hard onto the second story landing, and broke his left leg." Maggie nibbled her lip. "Could have been rotten boards." "First thing I checked." He shook his head. "That wood was as solid as the day it was milled. I was still trying to figure it out three days later when one of my guys took a header off a twelve-foot scaffold. Fractured his collar bone and was damned lucky he didn't break his neck." Dean shifted his weight from one hip to another, unable to find a comfortable position in the lumpy old chair. "After that, there were a flurry of mishaps, none quite as serious as the first two. A chandelier fell in the dining room, a crewman tripped down the front steps, and another one got locked in the old root cellar for a couple of hours before one of the guys found him and let him out." "Nothing that couldn't be easily explained," Maggie said. "Right. I just thought that we'd hit a run of bad luck, or maybe this house was just a money pit. Never mind we were hearing weird noises from rooms where no one was working." He made a sound of disgust at his own naiveté. "We explained it away as the settling of an old foundation. That's when this thing—whatever it is—kicked it up a notch and showed itself." Maggie went rigid. "Showed itself how?" "Floating balls of light. Dark shadows in places where there shouldn't have been any." Chill bumps rose in waves across his skin. "Then she took a more solid form, one all the men 25

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could see. At that point, all our explanations were shot to hell and we had to admit we were out of our league." "She?" He nodded. "Sure as hell looks like a woman to me. A young woman with long hair, though it's nearly impossible to see her face. She started popping up in front of my crewmen, scared a couple of 'em so bad they pissed themselves. Three of the guys quit outright, and all of them have flatly refused to step foot back in here." "And that's when you called us." "I wish I could say I was that smart. I really do." He gave her a rueful smile. "Your brother used to say I was one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, and he was right. I learned at an early age to solve my own problems. I thought this one was no different." He clucked his tongue. "Sometimes my own arrogance amazes me." "What did you do?" "You'll probably laugh, but what the hell?" Dean shrugged. "I went on the Internet, read a whole lot of shit about dealing with spirits and sending them on to their heavenly reward." He gave a humorless chuckle. "An old parochial school buddy of mine is a priest. I called him in to back me up, and the two of us set out to cleanse the house and send the spirit on." Maggie paled. "By yourselves?" "Stupid, huh? We were halfway through our impromptu exorcism when she appeared. The thing was screaming at us, but we couldn't make out what she was saying." His mouth was dry, his lips sticking to his teeth. "I'll say this for us: we had the balls to keep going while that whatever she is was 26

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hovering in the air above us. My buddy had just reached the part about going on to God when she threw something at us, almost like a ball of energy. My friend was thrown against a wall, and that's when she took hold of me and tried to stop my heart." Maggie opened her mouth, closed it, and then tried it again. "Not literally." "'Fraid so. According to the ER doc at the hospital where Joe—that's my priest buddy—rushed me after I blacked out, I had a mild heart attack. All I knew is that one minute I was standing up in front of the ghost and the next I was lying on the floor, fighting to breathe as my chest was seized with this freezing pressure. And that's not the weirdest part." With care for his still sore chest, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. "This was burned into my skin when I woke up." "Justice." Maggie read the word out loud twice more before locking eyes with him. "My God." "I have no idea what it means, but it hurts like a bitch and the docs are half convinced I did it to myself as some weird form of self mutilation." He buttoned back up. "That's when I decided to swallow what was left of my pride and beg Marc to help me." He rubbed his hand over the brand across his heart. "Think he will?" "Maggie can't answer that, but I can." Marc stepped from the shadows of the foyer where he'd been standing behind the doorframe, just out of Dean's line of sight. He looked to his sister. "Might as well cut the tape off, Magpie. I heard it all." Dean grimaced. "All of it." 27

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Marc nodded. His beautiful face—the face Dean had dreamed about every night for the past eight years—softened into something like tenderness. "I didn't know about your mother. Not how she died, I mean." "Doesn't matter." Dean stood up, suddenly unable to sit still. "It was a long time ago." "It does matter." Marc took a step toward him. "If I'd known why you reacted the way you did when I told you my secret—" "You'd have done what? Taken me back when I called you a year later, begging for the forgiveness even I knew I didn't deserve?" Dean turned away from them both, praying he wasn't going to disgrace himself by crying like a two-year-old. Without looking back, he said, "So what do you think? Am I beyond hope?" He felt Marc come up behind him. "No. There's hope yet." His voice fell an octave. "A hell of a lot of hope." Dean's fingers knotted, every fiber in his being screaming for Marc to be talking about more than just the ghost. A second later, the moment was gone, and Marc became the consummate professional. "First we need to get you out of the house. That word on your chest..." Marc stumbled over the sentence and started again as Dean turned around to face him. "That word tells me the ghost has marked you. You're her target, and we have to find out why, but not tonight. Tomorrow, after we've rested and formed a plan of attack." He moved toward the door just as Brian came in with Will and a guy Dean didn't recognize. 28

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Dean remembered how Will had ripped him a new one a few days after he and Marc broke up. Cautiously, he said, "Nice to see you again, Will." To his surprise, Will crossed the room and clapped him on the back. "You can cut the polite shit. The kid and I were standing at the door behind Marc, listening in." He looked Dean in the eye. "I think I'm starting to understand a hell of a lot better than I did eight years ago." He motioned to the guy Dean didn't know. "Dean Ryder, meet Alex Hauser, the new medium on our crew." Maggie rolled her eyes. "So much for the usual protocol." She shut off the recorder. "As I'm sure you heard, Alex, Dean is an old friend of ours. Since this case is more personal than most, we may need you to step in and help balance Marc on the investigation." The kid, who was nice looking in a fresh-faced, untried kind of way, regarded Dean with an expression of open hostility. "What for? This guy dropped Marc when Marc needed him the most. I say we let this ghost bitch finish him off." And with that he stomped out, his footsteps a loud echo in the nearly empty mansion. Dean didn't have to ask. He recognized a warning when he saw it. The kid clearly thought of Marc as his personal property and had just pissed a line in the sand between them. Jealousy Dean had no right to feel burned low in his gut. With no way to cover the awkward moment, he said, "Well at least we know how he really feels. No holding back with that one."

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"Forget about Alex for now," Marc said. "He'll cool off. In the meantime, is there a hotel close by, somewhere we can hole up 'til tomorrow?" "The closest one in is Athens, but Brian and I both live not far from here. I have a little place about two miles up the road and Brian's house is three doors down from mine." Dean cocked his head to the side. "Brian has two extra bedrooms, but I only have one so we'll have to split up and decide who's going home with who." "No brainer," Marc said. "Maggie and Will share a room, so they can take one of Brian's spares and Alex can use the other. That leaves me to go home with you." His tone took on an edge. "You and I have some things we need to get straight before we can cleanse this house." Dean swallowed. He wasn't sure whether to take Marc's statement as a threat or a promise. **** Dean's place was nice. It reminded Marc of an up-market version of the townhouse they'd shared in college. Chunky, craftsman-style furniture filled large, open rooms decorated in dark, masculine colors. Best of all, the place had floor to ceiling windows in every room. It was too dark to tell, but he imagined the house was flooded with light during the daytime. Dean led him first to the guestroom to stow his gear, then gave him a brief tour. In spite of himself, Marc was impressed. 30

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"Nice. Much classier than the apartment above my office." He smiled. "Maybe I should hire you to come decorate my place." Dean's work-tanned cheeks colored, but he brushed the compliment aside. "I'm sure your place is just fine. You always did have good taste." "Still, you've done well for yourself," Marc said as he took a seat on the living room sofa. "You and Brian, partners in your own construction company." "We had some help." Dean came in from the adjoining kitchen carrying two glasses of iced tea. He handed one to Marc, then took a seat in the easy chair closest to the end of sofa where Marc was sitting. "Dad left us each some money when he passed away. He and Brian's mom divorced when Brian was just a baby, so the two of us got it all. We were able to invest it and pour the dividends back into the company." He took a sip from his glass. "You haven't done so badly yourself." Marc gave him a questioning look, and Dean shrugged. "I watch the news, read the papers. You've earned the supernatural a credible following." "There are still plenty of doubters out there." Marc heard the bitterness in his own voice and winced. "Sorry. I wasn't talking about you." "It's okay. I've earned your distrust." Dean set his glass on the coffee table. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." He made a dry, raspy sigh deep in the back of his throat. "Now that it's too late, it's amazing how clearly I see what a total ass I was." 31

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Marc drew circles around the rim of his tea glass with one finger. "Like I said, if I'd known about your mom ... I might've been more willing to listen when you tried to talk to me after it all went down." "And like I said ... it's too late to go back." "Maybe..." Marc took a drink to wet his suddenly parched throat. "Maybe we could go forward." Dean looked at him with naked hope. "What are you saying?" "Not that we pick up where we left off," Marc hurried to say. "Too much time has passed between us for that." He crossed his legs and then uncrossed them again. "You and me ... we were friends before we became lovers. Maybe we can be again." "Friends?" Dean sounded like he wasn't sure he believed the offer. "If you're willing." Dean surprised him with a smile. "At this point, I'm so weak and pathetic I'll take anything you're offering and be damned grateful for it." Marc looked at Dean—all lean, work-hewn muscle and sassy good ol' boy charm—and laughed. "Somehow, I don't think anyone would accuse you of being pathetic." He sobered. "Friends tell each other things. There's something you need to know." Dean leaned forward in his chair. "I'm listening." Marc told him in vivid detail about the justice card he'd been finding for four days straight, and about Maggie's interpretation of what it could mean. 32

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A minute passed in silence as Dean absorbed the information. Finally, he said, "And you think it's somehow related to the word on my chest." "I'd be a fool not to." Dean nodded. "The question is, what's the connection, and how do we figure it out without getting one or both of us killed?" "It's possible the spirit wasn't trying to hurt you or your men." Marc spared a glance at Dean's chest, a chill spreading through him at the thought of what almost happened. "It sounds cliché, but sometimes they don't know their own strength. She may have used a little too much juice in a bid to get your attention." "If that was her intention, she sure as hell got it. And it still doesn't explain the brand she burned into my skin." Dean scrubbed a hand over the three-day-beard covering his chin. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" "No, but I'm still learning. There's a hell of a lot out there I don't know jack about." He set his glass on the table near Dean's. "I promise you, I'm going to do everything in my power to keep her from hurting you again." "You should know..." Dean hesitated, his eyes intense on Marc's face. "I didn't want to call you in on this. Didn't want you to risk yourself. Not for me." He got up, pacing a short trek back and forth in front of the windows on the far wall. "What changed your mind?" "Brian." Dean stopped pacing long enough to look at him. "He said you were a pro, and I should have enough faith in you to know you could handle yourself against this thing." 33

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"He's right." Marc rose from the sofa and closed distance between them. "I won't let anything happen to either of us, Dean." He took a step closer—so near now he could feel Dean's warm, sweet breath on his face. "On that, you have my word. Dean's tongue did a nervous dart to the corner of his mouth, and it was then that Marc remembered what a kickass kisser Dean had always been. Kissing Dean was almost as good as getting head from someone else. Just when Marc was daring himself to see whether Dean's kisses were as good as he remembered them being, Dean all but leapt away from him, and the moment was broken. "We should get some sleep," Dean said in a scratchy voice. "You know where the master bedroom is. Holler if you need me." Marc watched him go, unable and unwilling to say anything that might make him stay. He'd tried over the years to convince himself he was over Dean, had seen the string of men he'd taken to his bed as proof their connection was broken. Marc shook his head and made his way to the guestroom. Maybe he wasn't as good a liar as he'd thought. **** It was the whimpering that woke him. Dean came awake by degrees, his foggy brain taking a minute to recognize the sound for what it was. The minute he realized what he was hearing, he got out of bed and made straight for the liquor cabinet. 34

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Five minutes later, he was standing at Marc's door, glass in hand. He gave it tentative knock. "Come in." The lamps on either side of the bed were already on. Marc was standing at the window, curtains drawn back so he could stare out at the inky darkness. He turned when Dean walked in, smiling when he saw the glass in Dean's hand. Dean passed it to him without a word, then took the place next to him at the window. Marc lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed it and smiled. "Jack and Coke. You remembered." "It's one of only two things that could relax you after a nightmare." He spared a glance for the mangled covers heaped on the guest bed. "Must've been a bad one." "Yeah." Marc took a long draw of soda and whisky, ice tinkling as he swished it around. "First one I've had in a while." Another sip, and then he looked at Dean. "Thank you. This is what I needed." Marc was dressed the same way as Dean: a pair of boxers and nothing else. He did his best to meet Marc's eyes and not stare at the lean, hard muscles of his stomach or the furred trail leading into his shorts. He swallowed at the thought of what lay beneath the silky fabric. "You used to have the dreams at least once a week. Never would tell me what they were about." He hesitated. "Am I right to assume they have something to do with your psychic abilities?"

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"Sort of." Marc killed the rest of the drink, then set the glass on the night stand and perched himself on the edge of the bed. "You sure you want to know?" "I'm a true believer, Angel Eyes." The old endearment slipped out before Dean could stop it, but Marc didn't say anything so Dean decided to pretend like he hadn't said it. He scratched his still-healing chest, the word burned there itching like crazy. "Nothing you can tell me would shock me at this point." He pushed the mound of covers out of the way and sat down beside Marc. "I wasn't willing to hear it eight years ago." With extreme caution, he reached for Marc's hand. "I'm listening now." There was no hesitation as Marc squeezed his fingers tight. "I was five years old when I realized my imaginary friends weren't so imaginary." "Ghosts." Marc nodded. "My folks thought I was nuts. Took me to shrink after shrink ... even had me put on medication for a while." Dean stroked his finger up and down the pad of Marc's thumb. "Must've been hell for you." "Yeah. The drugs made me loopy as all get out, but the spirits kept coming." He sighed. "I was just a little kid, too stupid to keep my mouth shut about what I was seeing. Mom and Dad finally took me to see one last doctor, a guy in upstate New York, Dr. Minshaw." "I take it this guy was different from the others." Marc nodded. "Minshaw was—is—a licensed psychiatrist, but he also has a degree in parapsychology. He recognized 36

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my talent for what it was, yanked me off the drugs, and started working with me, teaching me to get a handle on it. Didn't even charge my folks for his services." Dean smiled. "Sounds like a nice guy." "He is. I still keep in touch with him, as a matter of fact." Marc let go of Dean's hand long enough to push his thick mop of reddish-brown hair off his forehead. "Unfortunately, my parents didn't want me to hone my gift." He reclaimed Dean's hand, his grip harder than before. His gray eyes were shadowed. "They just wanted it gone, wanted a normal son who didn't embarrass them in front of their friends by making contact with dead relatives at dinner parties." "I'm sorry, Marc." "So are they, now, but by the time they wised up, the damage was already done." Goose-bumps rose along Dean's skin. "What kind of damage are we talking about?" "My folks decided Dr. Minshaw was the wrong person to help them banish this 'thing' I had." He shook his head, gave a humorless laugh. "That's what they called it. A thing." Shame washed through Dean, thick and bitter-tasting. "And that's what I said to you the night you told me your secret." "You didn't know," Marc said without a trace of censure. "And neither did they, unfortunately. They believed the best way to find someone who could banish the ghosts once and for all was to seek out a practitioner with powers similar to mine. Thus began a parade of dragging me from one psychic to another." 37

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Dean tilted his head to the side. "I thought real psychic abilities were rare." "They are, but my parents didn't know that. Most of the people they took me to were carnie hucksters who flashed their tarot cards, waved their hands over their crystal balls, and pronounced me cured." A fine tremor shook him, and a sheen of perspiration dotted his upper lip. "Then they stumbled on a medium named Oscar Tallmadge." "Another fake?" "No, he was real," Marc said. "A real psychic, and a real bastard." He drew a shaky breath. "Oscar was at one time a talented medium, but he used his talent strictly for personal gain." "What do you mean?" "Most of the spirits who seek us out do so because they have unfinished business here in this plane. Some have hidden money they want returned to their relatives: others have secrets they need to share. Oscar used the information they gave him to either find the money himself, or to blackmail the spirit's family by promising to keep quiet about what he knew in exchange for payment. At the very least he used what he knew to keep the dearly departed's family paying him so they could continue communicating with their lost loved one." "Jesus." Dean whistled. "Bastard is right." "It gets worse. Because of Oscar's misdeeds, his own gift was starting to die." Marc shifted a little bit closer to Dean, as if he were seeking comfort. "The spirits no longer trusted him 38

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and that was severely cutting into his ability to milk their families." "Let me guess: he saw you as a way to reestablish contact." "Yeah." Dean wrapped one arm around Marc's shoulders and pulled him close. To Dean's relief, Marc didn't protest, just melted against Dean the way he always used to after a nightmare. Dean closed his eyes against the top of Marc's head, enjoying the clean, fresh scent of the man for a full minute before pulling back to look at him. "Is that what the dreams are about? Oscar and the way he used you?" "Some of them." Marc leaned against him again. "You have to understand, Dean ... not all the spirits out there are human." Dean went cold. "Are you talking about demons?" "That and more." Marc burrowed his head against Dean's chest, his skin chilled. "Oscar didn't understand what he was dealing with, and all that negative karma he'd racked up attracted dark, evil things who saw an innocent young boy as fair game." He breathed in an out in a deliberate rhythm, like he was trying to force calm on himself. "I was too strong even then to let them take hold of me, but they damn near tore me apart trying before Mom and Dad realized the mistake they'd made and took me back to Dr. Minshaw. Thank God he had a medium friend who was able to banish the darkness." He sat up but stayed close to Dean's side. "Now you know why I wake up screaming sometimes." He croaked out a dry laugh. 39

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"Memories can be a bitch." He smiled. "Thanks for the drink. It helped." Dean looked at him, the pallor of his face and the ever present trembling of his hands. He took a gamble then, desperate to erase the pain creasing Marc's brow. "There's another thing I used to do to help you get back to sleep." He lowered his voice. "Do you remember?" "Yeah." Marc shuddered, and it had nothing with fear. "What happened to being friends?" he asked in a husky whisper "We could be friends with benefits." Dean rubbed slow circles on Marc's lower back. "Remember how you'd wake up screaming, how I'd calm you down by taking your cock into my mouth and sucking you off till you shot down my throat?" "Dean..." Marc's lips were trying to argue, but the erection pushing against his shorts told another story. "Shh. No strings, I promise." Dean gently pushed Marc back onto the bed, back against the pillows. Dean came up over him before Marc could lodge another protest. "We're just two guys trying to take the edge off. All I want to do is help you. I swear I won't ask for anymore than that." "Will you kiss me?" Marc paused. "I know it's way intimate, but I—" Dean cut Marc off by covering Marc's mouth and sliding his tongue inside. Marc groaned, a sexy growl that nearly caused Dean to come undone. His lips teased and tormented while his right hand snaked downward into Marc's shorts. A second later that silky prick sprang free. Dean gave Marc's mouth once last 40

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taste, then slid the length of Marc's slender body and went down on him, deep-throating him in one smooth motion. Marc arched his back, his hips pumping of their own accord. Dean stayed with him, alternating between long, leisurely licks and fierce suction. It wasn't long before Marc was pushing Dean off, using his own fist to finish himself. Thick volleys of come spilled over his hand and landed on his stomach. "You didn't have to push me away," Dean said after Marc had recovered somewhat. "I wouldn't have minded." "No condom," Marc said on a breathless pant. "I think I'm clean, but..." He didn't have to say anything else. Dean hadn't been celibate in the last eight years either, and though it hurt to think of Marc in someone else's arms, he wasn't going to be a hypocrite. "It's okay." Dean kissed him, his cotton shrouded hard-on rubbing against Marc's messy belly. "I understand." "So do I." Marc grinned, looking down at Dean's cock, straining against his boxers. "I understand that bad boy needs taking care of before he pops." "This was about you." Another kiss. "I'll take care of him once I get back to my own room." "I have a better idea." Marc stroked Dean's face with his clean hand. "How about you prove what a good boy scout you are, come up with a condom and some lube, then get your ass back in here and fuck me?" Not exactly an eloquent offer, but it made Dean so hot he damn near shot then and there. "You sure?" 41

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Marc nodded. "Friends with benefits, right?" "Right," Dean said and then tried to break the land speed record retrieving lube and condoms from his bathroom. When he got back, Marc was naked, on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, his hole just begging to be taken. Who was Dean to deny either of them? He dropped his boxers and climbed up beside Marc. The great thing about Marc, he neither required nor wanted a lot of prep. He relished the slight burn of a thick cock sliding in, and Dean was damned happy to give it to him. Dean pulled on the condom, slathered on the lube, then lined himself up and started a slow slide past the thick ring of muscle. He felt Marc push back against him, and then he popped inside. "Oh, God yeah," Marc purred as Dean's balls slapped against his ass. He flexed his interior muscles, laughing softly when Dean moaned. "You still like that, huh?" "I'll show you what I like." Dean set up an even rhythm, just hard enough to hit Marc's gland with each stroke but not quite enough to give him the friction Dean knew he craved. He wanted to hear Marc beg, to come apart and plead with Dean to finish him the way he used to. He didn't have long to wait. "Harder, damn it." Marc rammed himself back on Dean's cock, pulled forward and then did it again. "Fuck me harder, Dean. Please." And just like that, the floodgates opened. Dean yanked on Marc's cock as his hips pistoned, driving him deep into that tight ass and out again. Marc groaned—came all over his 42

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hand—but Dean barely registered it as he fucked toward his own release. When orgasm hit, he thrust all the way in, collapsed against Marc's back, and filled the condom. It was a long time before either of them bothered to move. **** They slept together that night, though neither of them made a big deal out of it the next morning as they sat down to eat the French toast Dean had whipped up. Marc was trying not to think too hard about how nice it had been to wake up in Dean's arms again. The phone rang just as they were finishing their meal. Dean urged Marc to keep eating and grabbed the kitchen extension. "Ryder speaking." A pause. "Oh hey, Maggie." Another pause, this one longer. "He did, huh?" He made a face. "Yeah, I'll let Marc know. Thanks." He cut the connection and turned back to the table. "Maggie and the rest of your team are with Brian at the old house, ready to get started. Alex said to tell you there's a deep disturbance this morning and you should stop screwing around with me and get your ass over there to deal with it." Marc couldn't help it. He laughed out loud. "That sounds like something Alex would say." He shook his head. "The kid hasn't been doing this as long as I have. He doesn't have the good sense to be as cautious as he should." He pushed away from the table and stood. "We'd better head over there before Alex does something stupid and I have to clean up the mess." 43

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Dean grabbed his keys off the counter. "You and him ... is there something going on between the two of you?" He made it sound casual, but Marc thought he heard just a hint of jealousy mixed in. At least, he hoped he did. "No. Alex, as much as said he'd like to start something up between us, but he and I are just friends." He cut his eyes at Dean. "Without benefits." Dean seemed to relax at that. As they drove over to the house in Dean's truck, Marc couldn't help but wonder if Dean had any "benefit" buddies on the side. "So what about you?" He tried not to sound too obvious. "You seeing anyone special?" "Not until last night." Dean winked at him before looking back at the road. "I've dated, but nothing heavier than the occasional one night stand." It was Marc's turn to relax, and the two of them lapsed into companionable silence. By the time they got to the house, Maggie and Will had the equipment sitting on the porch, and Alex was pacing in a circle around it. Brian was sitting on the steps waiting with the others. Marc greeted his sister with a hug. "Hey, doll. You got any readings for me?" "No, but I think there's something you ought to hear." She went over to the porch and grabbed up the mini recorder she'd used the day before. Hitting play, she said, "This is what we picked up while Dean and I were talking." 44

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Marc listened to the replay of Maggie and Dean's conversation. Just as they got past the part where Dean was telling her about his mother's death, a raspy growl said, "You can't protect him forever." "What the—" Maggie shushed him. "Just listen. This is where it gets interesting." Marc listened. A heartbeat went by, and then a feminine voice could be heard saying, "Stay away from him." Dean came in behind Marc, his eyes wide. "I don't understand. I didn't hear anything. Not while Maggie and I were talking." "I'm not surprised." Will stood beside Maggie, his hand on her shoulder. "This falls under the category of Electronic Voice Phenomenon—EVP. Sometimes, if a recorder is sensitive enough, it can pick up communications from the other side." "It's practically impossible for a recorder without an external mike to pick up two voices," Maggie said. Brian came to stand by his brother. "What does it mean?" He looked scared, and Marc didn't blame him. "It means there are two entities in that house—two strong ones—and it sounds like they're at war, either with each other or us." Marc looked at Maggie. "Were you able to get any EMF readings from around the house?" Before she could answer, Dean said, "EMF?" "Electro magnetic field," Marc said. "Ghosts can sometimes disrupt the normal energy field and cause higher readings." Brian looked at Dean. "You have any idea what he just said?" 45

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Dean shook his head. "Not a freaking clue." Maggie laughed. "Doesn't matter anyway. I'm getting nada out here." Alex came to stand between Marc and Dean. "I'm getting plenty. I'm telling you, there's at least one spirit in that house. I can feel it in there, waiting for us." Marc looked up at the blank windows. The house seemed dark inside even though it was well after eight a.m. on a sunny day. It was another unseasonable warm December morning, and Marc hadn't bothered with a jacket. A chill washed over him, and he wished now he'd thought to bring his coat even through he doubted it would help ease the cold creeping through his blood. He looked at Alex. "You think you can handle this?" The kid nodded. "I'm ready." Marc took a deep, steadying breath, then said, "Maggie, I want you and Will to set up downstairs. Since Dean was attacked in the upstairs hallway, Alex and I will start there first, see if we can establish communication." "What about me and Brian?" This from Dean. "I think it would be best if the two of you wait outside." Brian readily agreed, but Dean was already shaking his head. "I have a stake in this, Marc. You said yourself, there's a connection between the card you keep finding and my near death experience. I have a right to see for myself what that connection is." "The difference is," Alex said with a note of derision in his voice, "we're professionals and you're an amateur. Stand back and let us do our jobs." 46

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Marc opened his mouth—whether it was to reprimand Alex for his high-handedness or to agree with his assessment, he couldn't say—but his words were cut off by the glowing appearance of a woman in the doorway. Alex saw her at the same time Marc did. "Oh, my God. Marc ... Marc, do you see that?" Mark nodded, not taking his eyes off the spirit. "See what?" Brian looked back and forth between them. "What are you talking about?" Marc looked around at the rest of them, including Dean. He could tell by the blank looks on their faces that he and Alex were the only ones who saw her. "It's a spirit," Marc said. "Most likely the one that you believe attacked you, Dean" Looking at her, the calm surrounding her translucent form, Marc had his doubts about that, but there was one thing he was sure of. "She wants to talk to me." Dean squinted, as if he were straining to see what Marc saw. "Why doesn't she appear to all of us the way she did last time?" "She might not be strong enough," Alex said, and this time his voice was free of disdain. "Sometimes spirits just don't have enough energy to make themselves known to anyone but a medium." "Maggie, where's the recorder we usually use for EVPs?" Maggie pointed to a place behind them on the porch, and Marc retrieved it. Switching it on, he said, "The rest of you fall back. It's me she wants." 47

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Alex started to protest, but Marc stopped him. "You can stay a little closer than the others, but I still need you far enough away that your energy won't be blocking mine." Alex didn't act like he liked it, but he went, as did the others. Dean started to go, too, but the spirit began waving frantically, shaking her faceless head back and forth. "Dean ... wait." Marc held out his hand. When Dean took it, Marc pulled him to his side. "I think she wants you to stay." Dean blanched, but to his credit, he stayed by Marc's side. "You do remember what happened last time she wanted my attention, right?" Marc squeezed his fingers. "We know now we have two spirits at work. This one might not have been the one to put that mark on your chest." The entity began to nod, like she was agreeing with him. Marc led Dean up onto the porch where she was waiting for them. "Can you hear me?" Yes. The word was faint, and Marc got the feeling she was speaking directly into his head. "Who are you?" he said aloud. She seemed to come closer then, though Marc could've sworn she hadn't moved. A minute later, her features came into clear focus. No longer faceless, her identity was clear. It was written in her glowing blue eyes. "You're Dean's mother." Dean went stiff and dropped his hand. "Mom." He edged away from Marc. "Is this some kind of joke? My mother would 48

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never have done this to me." He beat a hand against his chest. Never hurt, the spirit said into Marc's brain. A look of pure love wreathed her entire form. My baby. Beautiful boy. Marc look at Dean. "She says she wasn't the one who hurt you, Dean." Dean pressed his lips together in a hard line. "Then ask her who it was, and why he marked me like he did." Marc didn't need to repeat the question. The ghost of Dean's mother understood. She was appearing to Marc clearer than before, as if she'd gathered strength. "It was the other," she said in a whisper that Marc had no doubt the tape was picking up. Her words were easier to understand, complete sentences. "I came to watch. He came to destroy." Real fear was beginning to curl in Marc's gut. "Watch? Over Dean, you mean?" "Yes. Always been here, always watch my son." She lifted her spectral arms, as if she yearned to hold her son close. "You came, and I left for a while. Left him in your hands." She dropped her arms. "Then you were gone, and I was back." Her image shimmied. "The other came with me." Sorrow radiated from her, then. "He wants you. I couldn't stop him." "Me?" Marc's throat worked, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to say, "Do I know this spirit?" "Not a spirit." She sounded angry. "An other." It was then that Marc got an image, a picture of what Dean's mother saw in her head. A dark, twisted visage with a 49

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cruel smile on its grotesque face. Marc remembered that face. It had been haunting his nightmares for years. He shook his head. ignoring the way Dean was looking at him, and the whispers coming from where the other members of his crew were standing. "Dr. Minshaw helped me." He heard the denial in his own voice and winced. "We banished him." "Blocked, not banished. There is no light without darkness." She seemed to be caressing Dean with her eyes. "My light." "Light?" Dean's eyes were glued to the spot on the porch were the spirit was hovering, even though Marc was certain he couldn't see her. "Did she say light? Does that mean she made it to a safe place on the other side?" "You can hear her?" Marc waved his hand in front of Dean's face. "Dean, can you see and hear your mother?" Before Dean could answer, the spirit's form grew more solid. Marc heard a gasp from behind him. Maggie, it sounded like. It was then he knew that everyone could see her now. He heard Brian calling Dean's name, but Dean paid no attention, just kept staring at the apparition in front of him. "Mom?" Dean nearly went to his knees, and would have if Marc hadn't wrapped his arm around him to prop him up. "You're okay?" "I'm fine, my darling boy." This time her voice was as clear and strong as her image. "There is no condemnation among believers. God has forgiven me." A trace of sorrow returned. "Can you forgive me for leaving you?" 50

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"God yes." His eyes were wet and leaking. "I forgave you a long time ago." She smiled, making her look more like an angel than a ghost. "I love you, my beautiful baby boy." Her head whipped around, as if she was seeing something behind her. She turned to Dean. "There isn't much time. You've forgiven me. I can move on." She looked back again, speaking to someone neither of them could see. "Not yet. Just until I warn them." Her form flickered, beginning to fade. "The evil that is after you, he knows your feelings, the love you still carry for Dean, and him for you. He tried to kill Dean. I saved him then, but it's up to you now." She was translucent again, almost gone. "Mom, wait! Please..." There was agony in Dean's every word. "Don't leave me again." "I'm never far, darling boy. Remember that." She faded completely then, but before the last vestiges of her faded, Marc heard in his head, Save my son, and save yourself. Justice. A balance must be struck. Marc turned to ask Dean if he'd heard the last part, and that's when he realized he was no longer supporting Dean's weight. Dean was passed out cold on the porch floor. **** "Well if it isn't Rip Van Winkle." Brian pushed Dean's hair off his forehead, his tone teasing but his eyes speaking his relief. "You okay? You were out for over an hour."

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Dean groaned. As he tried to sit up, he realized he was lying on his own couch. Brian was standing behind the sofa, peering down at him. "How did I get back here?" "Brian and I carried you to the van and drove you back here. It was the safest place we could think of," Marc said as he came in from the kitchen. He had a tall glass of orange juice in his hand. He set it on the table, helped Dean into a sitting position, then sat down beside him and reached again for the glass. Pressing it into Dean's hand, he said, "Drink this. You need the sugar boost." He waited until Dean drank a few sips. "You remember everything?" Dean wished he didn't, but he wasn't going to lie. "My mother ... she's really gone, huh?" "Yeah, but only because she knows you'll be all right without her. My guess is, she only came back to protect you from the demon, or whatever he is." Dean gave a weak nod. "That's what she was doing that day, waving her arms and trying to scare him off. Only ... how come I could see her and not him?" "He didn't want you to." Marc's eyes were dark and shuttered. "He came after you to get to me. The bastard planned this." Dean allowed himself to go quiet for a minute. He remembered what his mother's spirit had said, just before she faded. "This thing, whatever he is, knows how we feel about each other. How we used to feel, anyway." He looked Marc in the eye. "How I still feel." 52

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"I think that's my cue to leave." Brian squeezed Dean's shoulder. "I'm going back to the house. Maggie, Will and Alex might need my help." "They're still there? Is it safe?" Dean couldn't imagine Marc would allow it if it wasn't, but still... "I've asked them to do a standard cleansing ritual, nothing fancy, and they'll be protected by the herbs and prayers they're using. I can't go in, not when I'm only at half strength after our encounter with your mom, but I wouldn't let them go in my place unless I knew there was no danger." Marc looked at Brian. "Go ahead, and thanks for helping me get him home." Brian grinned, nodded, and then left. Dean waited until he was gone, then said, "What will this cleansing do?" "At its most basic, the cleansing will remove the dark presence from the house. Since we know you're a target, I'm also going to have them bless this place and Brian's." Marc sighed, the smudgy circles under his eyes a testament to how tired he was. "It's me this thing wants. I realize now what justice means, what it is it's seeking." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's my fault you were attacked. My fault you almost died." "No, it's not." Dean took both Marc's hands in his, pulling them away from his face. "You couldn't have known this would happen. Not after I pushed you away." "I never dealt for my feelings for you. When you asked me to come back to you, after you realized the mistake you made..." His voice shook, and he stopped a second to 53

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regroup. "I wanted to forgive you—I swear I did—but I was so damned hurt and angry. I guess I wanted to punish you. For eight years, I kept that desire for vengeance inside me. No wonder this thing was attracted to it." "You said you understand what justice it's seeking." Dean used his thumbs on the palms of Marc's hands, soothing him as best he knew how. "What did you mean?" "When Oscar Tallmadge invited this thing into my life, it marked me as its own. When Dr. Minshaw and his friends blocked it, the demon was minus one victim." Marc must've seen that Dean wasn't understanding him, because he clarified. "There's a balance in the universe. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Dark and light. By staving the demon off his kill, that balance shifted. One up for the good guys." Dean was starting to get it. "And now this thing won't rest until he claims what was taken away from him." "Or makes me suffer for getting away by harming someone I care about." Dean allowed himself to hope. "Someone like me?" "I care about you, Dean—I won't lie and claim I don't—but I'm not sure we can ever have the same thing we had before." He pulled his hands away. "I'm older, and I've seen too damn much." "I'm older too, and I'd like to think I'm wiser than I was eight years ago." He wet his lips. "I love you, Marc. I never stopped, and I'm willing to bet a big part of you still loves me. That thing wouldn't have been able to use me to get to you if you didn't." Marc started to interrupt, but Dean put up his 54

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hand. "That doesn't mean I expect you to move in with me and start picking out china patterns." Marc chewed on his thumbnail. "Then what are you suggesting, exactly?" "That we get to know each other again. Date. Figure out just what it is we really feel for each other—how much of it is genuine and how much of it is a reflection of the past." "It sounds good," Marc said, "but it isn't that simple. This demon hasn't just been lying around for the last twentysomething-years, waiting for payback. It may've come in with your mother's ghost, but I'm willing to bet someone summoned it with the express purpose of finishing what it started." He lifted his hand to Dean's face, fingertips stroking his cheek with a butterfly's touch. "The more time you spend with me, the more danger you'll be in." "Luckily for you, I like living on the edge." He kissed Marc's palm. "We've already seen that shutting me out of your life isn't going to keep me safe." "The cleansing spell will keep the demon at bay for a while, hopefully long enough for me to find a way to banish it again." "But it'll be back." Dean wasn't asking. Marc gave a dejected nod. "Yeah. It'll be back." "Then lets use the time we have together to work on us— figure out if there is an us—and if we can ban together to stop him." "Long distance relationships never work," Marc said, but he was starting to smile. 55

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"Lucky for you, there are plenty of houses in and around Atlanta that need rehabbing. I can always relocate, if it comes to that. In the meantime, Atlanta is less than forty miles away from here." Dean winked. "I can handle the commute if you can." "Sounds like you've got it all worked out." He was trying to sound stern, but Marc was about to give in, and they both knew it. "How long do you think it will take Maggie and the others to finish up at the old house?" "At least a couple of hours," Marc said. "Why?" "The commute to Atlanta may be forty miles," Dean said as he got off the couch and reached for Marc. "But the commute to my bedroom is only about fifty feet." Marc only laughed and followed him down the hall. **** December 21, 2007 Marc was sitting in his office, going over a long list of invoices. Business was good, and yet he'd still managed to spend plenty of time with Dean. Nothing heavy; just dinner, a movie on DVD, and hot sex every couple of nights. He couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. Sometimes, that's all a man needed. "I'd ask what you're smiling about," Alex said as he came through the open office door, "but Dean is downstairs waiting in the lobby, so I guess I know." He sat down on the edge of Marc's desk. "There's no way I can compete with him, is there?" 56

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"You don't have to," Marc said as gently as he could. "You and I will always be friends, Alex. I care about you, and I'm honored to have you on my team." Alex lowered his eyes. "But that's all it'll ever be." "Yeah." Marc squeezed his shoulder. "That's all it'll ever be." Alex sighed. "I thought so, but I had to try. At least Dean turned out to be a pretty decent guy." He perked up almost immediately, as only twenty-year-olds can. "Who knows? Maybe I'll be the one to save the next hot guy from the big bad ghoulies and then I'll be the one walking bowlegged." Marc clapped him on the back. Things had been quiet on the demon front, and though he knew it wasn't over, he allowed himself to relax. He and Dean had plans to spend the holidays together, and Marc refused to let anything bother him. Demon hunting could at least wait until after Christmas. He stood up and grabbed his coat from the hook by the door. "I'll see you on the twenty-sixth," he told Alex. "Have yourself a merry Christmas." "You, too." Marc smiled and then made his way down to where Dean was waiting.

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