Ghost (The Halloween Boys #1) (54)
The bearded man’s parrot squawked as he marched over in his heavy boots. “Devil himself, that rum didn’t burn your face off, girl?”
I shrugged. “Clearly it doesn’t do that to yours either.” I gestured to his beard, which hung well past his ribs. I noticed several keys hidden amongst tiny beads, daisies, and charms as they dangled around the brown coils. First a woman chuckled, and then the man beside her. Suddenly, the bearded man began howling in laughter, even his parrot joining him.
“You might be dressed like a . . . Well, it doesn’t matter.” He beamed. “You’re a pirate if I ever saw one. Blythe, my girl, you’re welcomed on my ship anytime.” He gestured at one of his men who promptly refilled my glass with more. “Come and listen to our stories and poems. We’re a hell of a lot better company than the band of critters and dick bags out there.”
More grunts and clanks of agreement.
“Stories and poems,” I repeated. “That sounds really good, actually. It’s hard to get anyone in this town, or Hallows, to give me a straight answer on anything. Maybe you guys can answer some of my questions?”
“That we likely can, for a price, that is.” The bearded man reached out a handkerchief-wrapped hand. “I’m Captain Vex Beard III. I’m the Story Keeper of The Pirates of Ashes with the most tales of anyone these cursed seas ever saw.” He gestured around the fire. “And this here’s me crew of merry assholes.”
I smiled as he held his hat to his chest and bowed. “It’s nice to meet you all. I didn’t know there were pirate cosplayers here. Your outfits are so authentic . . . ,” I trailed off as the noise level died down again. A few whispers fluttered between crackles of the blaze, and I realized my misstep. “Sorry.” I swallowed. “I know I’m not supposed to . . . ”
The captain looked at me consideringly. His parrot cocked his head as if he, too, were sizing me up. Their costumes truly were, like everyone’s at Hallows, immaculately crafted. These pirates weren’t in your typical polyester and plastic. The swords and daggers at their sides glinted and seemed scuffled with not only weight but age and use. Their clothes were missing threads and covered in stains. Many of them donned hats of sun-stained and worn leather to go with their eye patches and various wooden prosthetics that, by my casual observance, weren’t hiding or attached to actual limbs. Many of them were truly missing a hand or foot. And when Scully knocked back his own drink, I noted that he indeed seemed to be missing a tongue. The truth to what I was seeing with the pirates was bizarre and unnerving, even more so than the animalistic costumes. Though I couldn’t find anything beneath the fur on those either, no zipper tracks or tags peeking through. I couldn’t find any holes or slip ups in these guys’ getups either. It was almost as if it were all real. Which was preposterous, but how could it be that each and every person at Hallows had such exquisitely detailed finery?
“Ask your question, girl. I know Seaman McGee over here is eager to share his poem of the evening.” He flipped a gold coin in the air, idly catching it and repeating the process.
I took a long sip of my rum to settle my nerves. It tasted like sweet, gritty razors in my throat, but it helped steel my resolve. If I could ask only one question and hope for one straight answer, this one stood out in my mind the most. This question shouted the loudest in my psyche.
“Who is Ghost?”
CHAPTER 19
Ames
CLAWS
One need not be a chamber to be haunted. One need not be a house. The brain has corridors surpassing material place.
Emily Dickinson
My demon was so close to the surface, skimming his claws along my consciousness until it was an effort not to shift. A woman had never made me want to turn before. I’d never met anyone who could coax out the Devil in me. And I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. It was at the very least a dangerous thing, especially for Blythe.
I told myself I’d been so close to turning because I’d turned and killed only an hour prior before returning home to a pensive Onyx who’d kept Blythe in a serene slumber while Wolf and I caught the wretched ghoul. My power thrummed through my tendons, aching to be set free again, pulsating, wanting to show her. Saying over and over in my mind, let us out, let us out, let’s play with her.
I’d seen and done some disturbing shit in my years as a damned soul, but tasting Blythe’s anger, the warm spice of it, like mulled wine, sent a jolt of desire straight to my cock, and this time, my demon wanted to play too. We were the same, him and I. If anything, I was more Ghost than Ames. I’d just suppressed that side of me for so long, only coming out to kill when the ideal target presented itself. When Onyx lost a case against a rapist or a pedophile, we’d assemble like bloodthirsty gargoyles and torture and maim in whatever way assuaged the evil within us all. That’s when my demon came out. But tonight, he wanted to fuck her . . . and that was . . . new.
An angry woman should not have my demon dick throbbing.
But Blythe was angry. Finally. Finally, I tasted something other than sadness, and fear, and loneliness, and resignation. I wanted to shake her and scream, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. You have me.
And then chain her to my bed and yell, you should be very afraid now that you do.