1

The Embassary

A pawn was going to move first.

In chess, this move can be seen as an example of an Anderssen's opening. It does little to control the center of the board and often constitutes a lack of moves that can be made or a need to throw something onto the playing field.

Some would argue that it’s a premature move. I would argue that it’s an immature move.

“Rupert, I’m busy.” I tucked my tie under my vest so the navy fabric was buried below grays and silvers. The material was worn from years of use and scraped against my fingers, like thousands of tiny braille bumps, each targeting a separate line.

A mustache classier than most vintage posters twitched atop an elderly lip, and Rupert crossed his arms at my side. “Boy, you’re always busy.”

“Occupational hazard. I’m an embassary, remember?” The word rolled off my tongue like a lead weight. At one point, it had been a title of formality and honor, but now it felt different on my lips.

Sometimes it was like a brambled stem, cutting and divoting my tongue with poisonous barbs for the casualness in which I wove my lies. Other times, the word was a coppery and sour-sweet like a myriad of lemon peels steeped in honey and set ablaze.

Rupert’s pastel green hand scratched through his hair. He exemplified a sentient cue tip with how it fluffed and bobbed against his square features. “Call it off. Take a sick day. Tr-” The older man shut his mouth, hoping to cut off my ex’s name. Few used it in my presence unless work was being discussed.

I wonder… Were my eyes their usual navy, or were they the fiery and emotional red of my other half as I glanced down at Rupert?

The ghost bobbed like a cork set to sea, neither touching the ground nor ever hoping to meet my height. A sigh whistled through my teeth. “One job pays the bills, and one ends with fangs at my neck, so perhaps I can have the luxury of doing the first?”

He adjusted his sweatband. Cotton candy thin locks curled in messy ringlets under the plush fabric, and the embroidered crown on the band glimmered as he motioned around the guest bathroom. “Damian, I love ya as my own, but why are you getting ready for work here and not in your room?”

With a satisfying click, I secured my cufflinks in place.

My reflection was more like a drowned cat than a man. Weary fingers knotted against a lock of gunmetal hair.

Unfortunately, my straight razor was already put away, or I would have resorted to hacking into my locks with far more zeal than any sane man to avoid the eye-obscuring curtain it was growing into. My fingers knotted around the comb beside the sink and I began brushing the knots marring the jowl-length tresses.

A scar glimmered into visibility under my shirt’s collar, and I focused accordingly to refract the surrounding light. Nothing said ‘picture ready’ like a bit of interdimensional shifting and light refraction.

The paparazzi would have a field day if so much as a thin silvery line made itself known, and I had enough gossip to tide me over after that story about me appearing in a satanic summoning circle aired.

Being labeled a sex demon was bad enough without masochism allegations or self-harm being tossed into the throngs of supermarket tabloids and blog posts; thank you very much.

With a snort, I shook the comb to rid it of any lingering pomade, and my fingers quickly destroyed any progress it had made to get a somewhat laid-back but still professional look out of my lax routine.

Rupert mistook my behavior for irritation and lamented, “No need to be snooty, lad.” I shook my head, and rather than imparting to him the story of how his esteemed paranormal leader was plucked out of his bathroom with a Hello Kitty towel around his hips to land in a white robbed devil-worshiping ring in New Jersey, I assured him, “That wasn’t intended for you. I was merely lamenting how much my hair has grown this week.”

I forced another smile. “My bathroom is still being repaired, remember? The tiles aren’t in place, so taking a shower is impossible, and the sink isn’t hooked up. I can’t use my straight razor without a sink.”

Rupert landed to tap a sneaker against the floor of one of the many second floor guest bedrooms allocated to the Magnus Dairy Estates. “That wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t barreled into the basement through that portal with a Hydra trailing after you.”

I leaned against the sink so my arms were crossed over the cast iron fixture, “It just blew up a little of the castle-”

Rupert pinched the bridge of his nose and motioned to me, “If you were human? You’d be dead.”

A smirk tugged weary lips to hint at a spectral fang. “Story of my life. What would you prefer I say? Maybe something with a bit more punch?”

My hand rested over my heart. “I, the zealous tempter of fate and belligerent flying poster boy for Schrödinger’s cat, picked a fight with a six-headed venomous vulture rather than paying a contractor to add to my nefarious secret lair.” My arm swept under my jaw, and I mocked a vampiric pose.

Rupert narrowed his eyes. “Nefarious is a bit of a stretch.”

I waved him off. “To some, I could very well be nefarious.”

“A hindrance or judge, but never nefarious.” The Dairy King clarified.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stifle my yawn.

The ghost’s eyes narrowed, so he appeared to be squinting at me. “Strange? I’m requesting that you call that bubbly blonde secretary of yours to clear your schedule today. You aren’t even cloaking your fangs!”

Being chastised by a ghost that perfumed the air in Muenster and Cheddar was becoming a recurring theme.

The tip of my tongue poked at one of the pearly white points peeking from under my lips. I rubbed a hand against my jaw. “Rupert, I need to have some physical presence in my company, or people will undermine my authority when my back is turned.”

Rupert made an exasperated clicking noise and squared his shoulders like a rooster about to crow. His eyes crackled with wisps of ectoplasmic energy as he strangled the air. “What am I going to tell Edmond when he returns from OZ? That you had half an hour of sleep last night, downed three energy drinks and an espresso, and then went on your merry little way to antagonize several old goats on your board of directors?”

A dark ebony brow, one of the few things that remained after my Universal Monster Perk upgrade, quirked. “Ah yes, tell my appointee exactly how poorly I treat my health. As if we all don’t already know-”

Just as it was starting to gain momentum, I cut off that train of thought. I turned on the faucet to splash my face. Leaning my head over the sink, I addressed him without a hint of sarcasm or the wiles of banter. “That was in poor taste. I’m sorry.”

Despite his short stature, he patted my shoulder, or at least attempted to do so. Thick fingers tapped against my collarbone awkwardly. “... Everyone deals with loss differently, kiddo.”

My hands knotted against my hair. “But how can I be this bad at it?” I lifted my head to stare at my reflection. “I don’t think Anna would even recognize me now. I don’t even recognize myself for how empty I feel.”

“...I miss her too.” Rupert took a deep breath. “The drinking problem is new and problematic, but- well, I haven’t smelled whiskey on you the last two days.”

Standing a bit prouder, my hands carded to rest in my pockets. “I’m trying to cut back....”

Rupert thumped his hand against my spine, oblivious or perhaps numb to the odd musculature beneath my clothes. “I’m glad you’re finally returning to us, lad.”

The ghost of a small, genuine smile twitched at the corner of my lips. That’s what mattered most. Progress. I couldn’t afford to stagnate, or I’d go mad with thoughts churning in my head. I stalked toward the door and called over my shoulder, “My cell phone is by my bed upstairs. Text Mrs.Dolce.”

Rupert’s proud smile turned into a beaming grin as he zipped past me in a blur of green and burgundy. He phased through the ceiling.

I took my time strolling along the rug-adorned hallway.

The vases required new flowers from the gardens, and the suits of armor needed to be dusted to remove the thin film of drywall dust lingering from all the reconstruction the estate was being cycled through. Demons, a teenager breaking into several rooms, that sentient microwave, and a pixie invasion of the Germanic bone-gnawing variety had all but rendered a few rooms wholly cut off until I could either hire someone discreetly under the guise of a bachelor party gone awry or pick up a trowel to do the deed myself.

I was about to turn my heel toward the central stairwell when a strangled sob trickled from one of the guest bedrooms. I hesitated next to the door it had emanated from.

The wind whistled against my skin as I swung it open and flew in, throwing normalcy to the wind. Everything in the room was covered in white sheets save for one lone, shivering figure who had nestled amongst the dust-covered blankets adorning the bed to rest. Long lilac ears flickered softly in the knight’s sleep as he tossed and turned. His young features were conflicted and perhaps alluding to a nightmare that would never cease.

The dark embassary, Terivingi, Will-o’-the-wisp, the grim, Fright Knight-

The twenty-one-year-old ghost knew many names, but to me and those of my house?

He was Romulus, my second appointee and adoptive son.

Romulus shivered, and ebony claws formed from his spectral nails. His face was covered in the ghostly equivalent of sweat. It beaded against the marred light lilac splotch on his jaw that had resulted from his mock execution hundreds of years prior.

Once upon a time, in the land of Brasil, a boy was raised to be a mighty knight for his king.

A sacrifice.

A shell.

My hand reached passed the knotted braid his long tresses were bound with, “...Romulus?”

Green eyes flickered open in a vibrant and toxic hue. There were no whites or pupils, simply broken shades of emerald that had bled from the brighter-colored iris to ensnare the entirety of his frightened eyes.

His fangs revealed themselves, and his ears pinned back in preparation for fighting his attacker. He stopped, his hand frozen where he had begun a brutal swipe. He averted his eyes and apologized in accented English, “My apologies, Damian.”

I kneeled to meet his gaze as an equal, and a weary smile poked at the corner of my lips. “You're aware you can take your night light from Amityville with you, right?”

Tendrils of shadow wisped around the four-poster bed, scraping and churning against the wood with an unsung want to protect their wielder. Romulus sat up and rubbed a hand against his haggard face. “I still don’t trust the idea of electricity, much less the fact it won’t bite me the moment I detach that fanciful lantern from its perch.”

I smirked. “Without a connection to the wall, it’s harmless.”

“I wish I could believe that, but few things severed from their connections are ever truly harmless.” Romulus stood and swayed so his hand caught against the side of the wall. Claws nicked into the apple tree-adorned wallpaper, and he pinned his ears. I gently removed his hand from the paper.

“It’s just a wall, Romulus. I damage similar, if not more, on a weekly basis.”

He smiled, an expression soft and so very kind. “I’ll still try to repair it.”

Guilt is such a poisonous thing. It churns and wriggles into a heart, using empathy to burrow its way in like a maggot into a recently ripened peach. The softer and more battered the fruit, the more easily guilt’s tiny jaws can gnaw their damages, even if the guilt was unfounded.

Despite my efforts, Romulus was beginning to remember his past, and the wounds not made by the blade or flames showed more with each passing day. His nightmares, the way he flinched from touch or apologized profusely-

I forced a nod and walked toward the door. My hands returned to my pockets and fisted. It was an effort to remain cheery, “I have no doubts you will.”

I glanced back over my shoulder. “Rupert has requested that I stay at the castle for the entirety of today, and I would very much like to have breakfast with you and him downstairs.”

His boots clipped behind me like the pattering of a nearly still breeze on the wind- distinctly inhuman. A slight frown, almost guilty, formed. “I believe I should pass-” Something akin to a stomach growled, and I whirled around.

My eyes caught on him, and the knight froze mid-step. “...Did-” I trailed off, far more than a little perplexed. Ghosts didn’t have stomachs, and that noise only occurred when some level of digestion was being used or left unused. “...Romulus? Was that a stomach that growled?”

Romulus brushed a scarred hand over his lower abdomen. “It’s a recurring anomaly. My apologies if it startled you-”

I blanched, “How recurring is it?”

Green eyes locked with my sleep-deprived navy, “I believe it’s an injury from my severance last year. It’s nothing.”

I turned on my heel. “If you’re more fae than ghost, it very well could be something.” My eyes widened. “Have you eaten anything on our plane since last May?”

Swallowing his fears, he coughed into his hand. “The dead should have no place at the living’s table. I don’t need food to sustain myself.”

I frowned. “You’re not dead.”

Romulus motioned to himself flatly. “I lack a pulse and a brain.”

Grabbing his wrist, I trudged us down the stairs leading to the entrance hall of Castle Charlemagne. “Romulus? The dead are the bodies that rot underfoot. The bones and the shells. You’re a soul.”

Romulus paused mid-step and huffed, “Damian, that’s-”

“Correct, and I would like to see you argue otherwise when I’m a part of your world and this one. You don’t think I am dead, do you?”

“Of course not! You’re the embassary, the human artifact that embodies balance and living energy-‘’ He paused and sighed, “I traversed right into that one, didn’t I?”

I smirked devilishly, and my eyes flashed a humanoid red as bright as hellfire. “To be fair, your first argumentative has some merit.”

Romulus blinked as he processed the tease. A small laugh bubbled from his lips, and for once in a relatively long time, I saw the weariness in his frame. “That was cold.”

Something was wrong…What had I missed? The food of the Soul Folk and his mark should have been sustaining him, so why was he in decline?

We passed Rupert’s portrait on the first landing. Resting within the worn gilded frame, the man's tired brown eyes kept a silent vigil over the front entranceway. The gray suit adorning his plump frame was frazzled and wrinkled to contrast his rather full, rosy cheeks. His smile lines had faded with age. It was a sad reminder that the smile worn now was one he had seldom shown while in a living body.

Nowadays, he bore the continence of a lavishly decorated charcuterie board. Rounded, full of excessive cheer, and carrying with him the scent of cheese and overly ripened grapes like a delicatessen-themed cologne. It was a rather funny pitfall to having an obsession with cheese while cursed to the citrusy ozonated scent ghosts tended to have.

Various pans and utensils jangled from the confines of the kitchen. Rupert’s jolly voice rang out as we entered the main hall. “I’m makin’ waffles!”

Romulus’s ears flickered. “Those are cross-hatched cakes, right?”

I nodded, and my stride increased at the promise of a warm meal not snuck to me by my secretary or scrounged for via a drive-thru. Dress shoes clipped against the tile as I entered the dining hall.

My appointee stumbled, and I caught him, so we were standing before the table. It was an extravagant and needlessly long thing with twelve chairs that had only been used a handful of times in their existence. Still shepherding Romulus, I turned sharply toward the left and into the kitchen. Releasing his wrist, I motioned him in with a tiny nod.

The portly ghost hummed as he worked, flinging various toppings and ingredients from the fridge in a blur of calorie-rich, cheesy chaos.

I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms playfully. “It looks like you’re making quite a bit more than waffles.”

Rupert rolled his eyes and reached over to flip our bacon—the ends of the applewood-cured meat coiled and spattered hot lard against the stove.

Rupert couldn’t taste it, but he could enjoy the scent and texture.

Romulus was the more complicated enigma...

The elderly ghost manning the frying pan snickered, “Did ya think I’d just let yah go about eating nothing but junk food this morning?”

Forgoing the doorjamb, I shuffled into the space as a physical partition between the door and Romulus. Rolling my sleeves, I stopped near the stove with every intent of manning the burners. The spatula was stolen with a swift phase from Rupert’s chubby fingers.“With that tone, a man could assume you’re being sarcastic or hinting at something.” I prodded, navy eyes just briefly catching Rupert’s glowing ones.

Rupert snorted and thumbed behind us to where Romulus was trying to peek over our shoulders. It seemed bacon was a rather potent lure for the knight. A stomach growled again, and Rupert stiffened.

Romulus froze, and his ears pinned. Out of habit, he locked his legs and moved an arm to block for a potential hit. I didn’t move, caught between my parental worry over his degrading glow and the sharpness for which he tried to hide what was obviously ailing him. I needed to drop the subject, if only for the moment.

I rolled my eyes, the gesture still directed toward Rupert. “Ah, so you knew he was here and chose not to tell me.”

Rupert caught the gist and crossed his arms.“You have super hearing and super smell along with your embassary juju. You would have noticed him if you weren’t so tired you can’t see straight.”

I hummed, and my tone lightened more at the chastising, “An expected reaction given I’m still a body-imbued being and a part of this plane.”

Rupert massaged the bridge of his nose and grumbled something illegible before pouring a generous dollop of waffle mix onto the nearby iron. “Demon hunting, artifact collecting, halfling babysitting, and managing a company are each hard on their own and almost impossible for any sane being to pull off on-”

I reached to hug an arm around Romulus’s shoulder. “And that’s why an embassary has appointees. Live a-”

Rupert gave me a flat look, and I shut my mouth to stifle my laughter. The square-faced ghost snatched the spatula from me and turned to start some eggs. “My point stands. I’m grateful that you chose to take today off, but you need to take tomorrow off as well.” There was a pointed glance at Romulus.

Romulus was rigid against me, both ears perked and green eyes slightly wide, before he chanced a subtle lean into the hold.

Focusing on Rupert, I rolled my eyes. “Days off are rather hard to come by with my profession, Rupert.” I patted Romulus before retracting. The fridge was a dented wreck, clawed and banged against from the wiles of that possessed microwave a few days prior. Pulling the handle, I fetched a chilled can of soda from the depths of wilted produce and cheese products lining the shelves and clicked it open with my thumb.

Rupert muttered under his breath. “You’d have more time if you stopped visiting that little brat in Colorado.” I choked on my drink, spraying corn syrup and artificial lemon out my nose and onto the freezer door. The flesh in my nostrils screamed, and I coughed to alleviate the sour candy-branded gasoline burning my windpipe. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and my eyebrow twitched. “He’s my godson, Rupert, and someone has to ensure his parents don’t accidentally use him for target practice.” For emphasis, I added, “Again.”

Rupert plated two of the eggs and slid them onto the kitchen island. “The boy is a jerk, Damian.”

I adjusted my soda to rest in my free hand. The fridge door was closed with a soft thump, and my spine leaned against it for support. “He’s probably the rudest, jerkiest sixteen-year-old in existence, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to be shot or torn apart for scientific curiosity. He’s hurt me more than he’ll likely ever know, but he’s still a child.”

“A teenager and one who overlooks consequence.” Rupert growled.

I glanced over my drink, and my eyes flashed red with my emotions. “What would you have me do? Leave him to stumble into one of those consequences when the majority of those at fault are his parents? I can’t see another kid-” I cut myself off. I didn’t need to dwell on this topic first thing in the morning with an ill knight nearby.

Rupert averted his gaze. “Do what you deem is right. You tend to make the best choice for everyone involved.”

‘Except for myself, it seems.’ The soda was overly sweet, as it always was, and I could feel the bubbles within my stomach churning and hitting against the sides of the organ like thousands of tiny waves. It was a fleeting sensation that grew numbed as all physicality from the barrage was siphoned away and turned into pure energy by my ectoplasmic cells.

Romulus was curiously leaning over the stove. His long ears flickered and perked against his pillow-knotted hair, and he turned so the braid coiled around his shoulder smacked against the brand on the right side of his neck. Green eyes were alert and set to something outside our home. “Something’s coming. I can hear boots outside-”

The menagerie of floating condiments and ingredients screeched to a dead halt. Rupert raised a bushy brow in worry and glanced toward the windows.

My eyes closed so I could focus past the popping bacon and the hiss of electricity in the walls. There was a dull grating against the gravel drive, but…

I rushed forward to tackle Romulus and Rupert onto the tile flooring as an explosion blasted out the windows facing either side of the sink.

Glass rained down, rattling along the stone countertops and through us as we phased intangible.

Rupert’s chosen pantry staples and pilfered fridge items rained down to splatter the tile. I glared at the broken windows and growled. “We have company, and it’s not the Girl Scouts.”

Rupert phased off the hot sauce covering his sweatsuit-adorned build. The broken bottle was poked mournfully. “I’m too old for this bullshit.”

I adjusted my hold and instructed him. “I want the two of you to phase into the basement lab and lock the door. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Romulus’s features flickered to be obscured under shadow. “Damian-”

Rupert was no better. “Now see here! I’m not about to let a repeat of last time-”

A sheepish smile tugged at my lips. “I’ll see you two soon.”

I opened a portal to the downstairs lab and tossed them through it with a flourish. They rolled to safety as the remaining windows in the dining room were kicked in.

I crawled around the cabinet and waved a hand to dissipate the vortex leading to the lab. The island and the wall cut off most of my view into the dining hall.

It was times like these when I cursed the lack of renovation in the kitchen and my half-hearted gestures of appeasement for Rupert. Every cabinet in this castle creaked when opened and squealed with rusted vigor when closed, so using a pot lid to glance around the corner was out of the question. And all of our pans? They were gleaming above the island on a rack Rupert had blackmailed me into expediting from Amazon.

I had options, of course, but each spiraled into a possibility of extreme pain or agony if our esteemed home invaders were packing more than a few shotguns and gas bombs.

And if they were who I suspected? It didn’t matter how I poked my head around the corner because something was liable to get shot.

I glanced toward the dining room, and a low curse bubbled from my lips. Two weapon-toting goons were jumping in through the shard-rimmed holes my windows had once sat in.

Retracting my head, I ducked against the side of the cabinet and took a deep breath. The air sucked inward around me, and in a pop of vibrant pink, I was in my bedroom.

My phone wasn’t on the bed where I had left it. I zeroed in on the nightstand drawer and hurriedly slammed it open to rifle through the contents.

Nothing.

Which meant Rupert had phased it into one of the walls to prevent me from scrolling through my emails. “God damn it, Rupert.”

Two of the four were solid brick, rendering phasing anything into them a destructive endeavor that left the two side walls the only viable hiding spots. I ran to the one connecting the suite to the bathroom and slapped my hands against it to render it invisible. There were a few Lord of the Rings books, some Post-it notes, and a variety of pens, but no cell phone.

Flying to the other side of the room, I repeated the process, only to be greeted by sheets of cotton candy pink insulation.

My fingers smacked through the drywall and hooked onto one of the most extensive swatches. It turned invisible, and I plunged my hand into the next segment to repeat the process. The phone was nestled near the cornermost wall outlet.

My hands wrapped around the static-riddled plastic, and I tugged it free to text the downstairs lab computer. ‘Pallio Zeli, Stage 80.’

‘Noise and paranormal energy suppressant for level 80 readings in laboratory one are now active.’

With that presumably handled? I pocketed my phone, straightened my tie, and calmly phased from the third floor to be back on ground level.

My loafers touched down soundlessly, and I slowly slipped back to be on the left side of the stairwell.

Their guns were a dead giveaway as to who was paying me this rather unwelcome visit. I had tampered with the designs for said weaponry only a few months prior and, regrettably, had a long history with the organization that manufactured and used them.

The question was, why was GHUL breaking into my home so brazenly, with Interpol and the United States government already biting at the bit to arrest every single one of them?

You’re probably wondering what an organization like GHUL is or how they’ve managed to climb onto Uncle Sam’s shit list. You’re also probably wondering why the United States would give anyone sporting an anti-ghost weapon the time of day, much less an entire group of them funding.

To answer your questions? GHUL is an acronym for a branch company of the recently bankrupted tech giant AvraTech. GHUL stands for Generalized Handling of the Unworldly and Leonimateluics.

That last bit is a veiled Frankenstein word composed of several Greek and Latin roots that the CEO of AvraTech, Leon Martinez, created to summarize the organization’s primary purpose. GHUL was founded to research an advanced form of bioenergetics humanity had documented in every culture and history to grace our planet.

Bioenergetics is nothing new, but the field is highly underserved and lacks research into that aforementioned variant of science. ‘Leonimateluics’ was cobbled together to plaster Leon’s name on the science and to hint at the organization’s real purpose.

Soul weaponization.

Because in all of humanity’s history? There would always be more dead beings on Earth than the living. By extension, if energy cannot be created or destroyed, the existence of the soul is brought into question.

Imagine it…

A being that didn’t need to eat or sleep. A soldier who couldn’t die. If someone could patent weapons against such beings or control a large group of them? They could do anything.

My fingers brushed against the wall displays near the staircase, so they lingered against the cross guard of one of the swords hanging upon the aged mahogany.

I closed my eyes and listened.

Several glass shards cracked under the heavy boots in the dining room, and several staticy walkie-talkies crackled throughout the castle.

Given the amount of chatter below and above me, it was cheap equipment and likely purchased from an army surplus store or in bulk from a defective stockpile.

Yet another blatant sign that GHUL was on its last limb. With all their government contracts dried up and their funding cut off by Uncle Sam last February? The privately owned ‘developmental’ agency for paranormal defense was now being clocked in as a phenomenal waste of funding and an eyesore. No one in the military wanted to touch them, and given a certain file I may or may not have leaked regarding various illegal and inhuman acts the CEO of Avratech had committed, they wouldn’t be pulling in any new funding any time soon.

Nothing says ‘outstanding warrants’ like dealings with the cartel for military grade weaponry and numerous international missing persons cases.

I raised a brow. It had gone awfully quiet in the dining room. Too quiet.

Someone’s boot cracked a piece of glass like peanut brittle underfoot. “What part of being absolutely quiet do you not understand?”

“...You do realize we just blasted most of this guy’s windows out, right? He knows we’re here.”

My eyes rolled, and I grabbed the ‘ornamental’ sword from its pedestal. Knights Templar, 12th century, double-sided and sharpened expertly-

It was a rather formidable and ‘human’ deterrent for a seemingly ordinary and presumably untrained combatant.

A perfect distraction.

The blade was twisted by its guard in my palm to test the weight and balance as I strode silently to the dining room. I stopped beside the doorway and peeked in. Two gorillas in tactile uniforms were odd. Usually, a standard unit of GHUL agents was composed of a six-man cell, and each cell usually focused on a single level.

A near-silent click echoed behind my head. I ducked, sliding to the side and twisting the blade in my palm to knock the flat side into the gun as it was fired.

The bullet’s outer ceramic shell shattered to allow the holes drilled through the projectile to whistle. It sliced through the air to forge a banshee’s keen. The spent ammunition embedded in the wall amongst a concussive arch of shrapnel identical to a hand grenade, denting an ornamental shield and shattering two of Rupert’s display cases.

I winced. If we survived this, Rupert would be pilfering my checkbook to replace that prized Pyrex bowl. At this point, I couldn’t tell where the display case began and the demolished bowl ended.

I rammed the hilt of my sword into the shooter’s stomach to topple him before backing out of reach.

That eerie keen reverberated through the foyer before clipping against the chandelier that shadowed the front entranceway. Crystal rained onto the floor.

Apparently, the combustive hindrance I had placed in the barrel to fry the gun had been recalibrated to shoot a new type of bullet, and that bullet was proving to be quite the threat. GHUL might as well have been shooting pipe bombs. Rock, metal- There were more holes in my castle than in a Swiss cheese factory.

The two men in the dining room ran to its entrance, guns poised and aimed at me. The one I had elbowed in the gut stood to grit through his teeth. “Damian Masters.”

I forced a courteous smile and lifted my palms appeasingly, “I can’t say this visitation is on my schedule for today. If you call my secretary, I’m sure she can fit you in for a more preferable time. Perhaps, hmmm-” I made a point of musing a timeframe before finishing, “Never?”

The goon to my left clicked the safety off their gun and adjusted their aim. “We’ll have to refuse that little request, Mr.Masters. We aren’t exactly here for caviar and crumpets-“

I couldn’t help how my eyebrow twitched or the sarcasm that left my lips. “You broke into my kitchen. The best I can offer any of you is some partially singed waffles and what is probably now burnt bacon.”

The Pyrex-Pariah narrowed his eyes before asking, “Where’s your hired help? A guy like you tends to have at least one snooty butler named Jefferys and a cheap dime-a-dozen maid at his beck and call.”

I tilted my head and smirked.“I gave them the day off.” Acrid smoke carried from the kitchen. “We’re now down to the waffles for this little unplanned surprise party, unless you’re all partial to charcoal cleanses.” I informed rather casually.

One of the men by the doorway slowly backed into the dining room. Broken glass crunched underfoot as he ducked into the kitchen. I eyed the two remaining men. None of them were wearing goggles to see interdimensional energy patterns, so-

Energy split from my flesh, peeling away like a buzzy bandaid to create an echo of my will just outside their perceived sight. The duplicate or energy ‘double’ stayed out of the visual spectrum as it crept to the kitchen. Gloved hands wrapped around the waffle maker near the sink, and the duplicate slunk up behind the mercenary, inspecting the burnt remnants of what had once been rather delicious bacon.

He turned just in time to see the floating waffle maker above him before it clocked into the side of his head. He stumbled backward, and his hands collided with the hot burner. The smoking bacon pan toppled and flipped, throwing scalding grease onto his backside and crotch.

The duplicate snickered, “Over Easy.”

The screams from the first ghost hunter lured the second into the kitchen, where my still-cloaked double threw out an arm to clothesline him. He clattered to the floor with all the grace of a bowling ball, smacking into a pool of jello.

That just left my shoot-happy friend. I raised a brow. “It sounds like your partners are having a little trouble in the kitchen. Perhaps you should go help them?”

He adjusted a dial on the side of his weapon, and the light red LED light in the grip shifted to a vibrant green. “I’m aware, but I think I can ignore them this once to take care of a more pressing problem.”

My eyes narrowed. “So, what are you aiming that gun at me for? I’m not exactly a ghost.”

The smirk my words were rewarded with sent a shiver down my spine. “From what my boss has told me? You might as well be a ghost, and I’d bet money you and your merry group of freaks are responsible for what happened in Amityville last August. But by all means? Go ahead and struggle, so I have a reason to shoot you in your smug mouth. That’ll solve both our problems.”

My fingers curled around the hilt to ensure a strong hold. “Quite the threat. Did Martinez personally send you out to ruin my Monday morning or-“

He motioned for me to drop my weapon. “We’ve been looking for an excuse to take you down for a few months now. Mr.Martinez can’t exactly text us without putting himself at a liability.”

Metal imprinted against my palm. “So you’re fulfilling a backlogged request. Can I ask how I moved up on the list?”

Another agent crept from the hall under the stairs, hands already shifting to retrieve a set of cuffs from his belt. The GHUL agent that was pointing his gun at me snorted. “A brat from Amityville, Colorado, called the agency.”

My blood ran cold. The only other fully artifact-melded being currently in existence had tipped off a group of murderous ghost terrorists about me. He noted my expression with growing amusement. “One hell of a prank call, isn’t it, Masters? It only took one brat picking up a phone and dialing us to check out an ‘evil’ ghost lurking in Castle Charlemagne, and we secured our token excuse to visit you.”

I sneered. “GHUL’s government jurisdiction expired in March. You don’t have a single ounce of protection for this little house call, and once the media gets wind of this? Any granule of plausible deniability that call gave you will go up in smoke, and you’ll be facing the same charges as Martinez when he’s caught.”

My duplicate had returned from the kitchen and was now hovering overhead in the event it needed to be sacrificed for a distraction. A set of cuffs jangled behind me. The other agent seemed to be sticking on the outskirts to avoid a similar fate to his brethren. Nicotine and cheap cologne clung to him like a depressive Little Tree air freshener.

The agent with the gun motioned to my blade. “Drop it, pretty boy.”

I scoffed. “And let the walking ashtray get a chance to cuff me so I can be escorted out of my home for god knows what? Hard pass.” My sword was adjusted, so the blade was poised between us.

Mr. Trigger Happy leveled his weapon. “I’d say ‘your funeral,’ but I think we all have an accurate guess as to what you truly are.”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

“What’s so damn funny?” The agent snarled and motioned at me with his gun.

My hand carded over my heart with mocking sincerity as I motioned with the pointed edge of my blade to him and then his lackey. “You have no clue, not a single iota. An evil ghost in Castle Charlemagne ?”

I chuckled. “This place is the most haunted castle in the Great Lakes region, and I can assure you that title was around far before I or any of you were born.”

My gaze flickered to my blade, and for a split moment, my eyes flashed red in the reflection of the steel. I stepped forward, shoes clipping soundlessly against the hall rug before I feigned a lunge. Both men panicked and moved to shoot or duck from the blade. I pulled the rug from under their feet like a Vegas magician pulling a tablecloth.

The sword was twisted to be brought down, so the glistening silver edge brushed under a rugged jaw. “But I am more than willing to place a ghost within these hallowed halls.”

An additional gun whirred behind me. “Drop it.”

I kept my stance. “I’ll have his throat slashed by the time you pull that trigger.”

The blade was curved to show its edge, and I angled it to nick his skin. A tiny sliver of crimson ebbed under the glaring agent’s jaw. I continued, “From where I stand, you have limited options, gentlemen. You invaded my home with ill intent, and whatever cameras or electrical you cut in the power box outside hasn’t saved you from the secondary grid the remaining members of your team are no doubt looking for.”

The look of sheer surprise on the GHUL agent I was holding down at sword point was almost comical.

I smirked devilishly. “That’s right, boys, smile for the cameras.”

He glared beneath me. “So what do you think our options are, Masters? You’re still outnumbered.”

Someone groaned in pain from the kitchen, and I snorted. “Yes, but an argument can be made for how able or competent your team is right about now, wouldn’t you agree?”

The tense moment of silence that followed was cleaved through by one of their walkie-talkies as a team member informed, “There’s something on the lower level. Standby.”

A bang resonated through the floor below us, then another so that the chandelier canopying the great hall shook. Dust caked the stone floor at our heels.

The third bang, however, carried far more weight in its foundation-shaking howl. The scream entwined against it was straight from my nightmares. My breath hitched, and the sword in my fingers felt like a lead weight as I tossed it up to my duplicate. The hilt twisted, catching the light before my spectral double shifted into the visible spectrum.

The white-cloaked ghost seized the handle in one black-gloved hand and twirled it above the cord connecting the crystal chandelier to the ceiling. The lights flashed, and my red eyes locked with the men still lying on the floor. Cold steel met the electrical cord, and the chain tangled around it to cast sparks and falling crystals on the men below with a thunderous crash.

“Shoot it!”

DONATE HERE

COPYRIGHT 2024. All rights reserved.