Between that and the damned doorknob, he felt like he’d dragged his ass after his annoyingly obtuse guide through at least three miles of dark, psychically burdened tunnels in a tour of the old hotel. Finally they ended up back near the kitchen in order to find the one room that was not filigreed, curlicued, paisleyed, or cabbage-rosed to goddamned death.
“What?” Tucker asked grumpily, taking in the plain twin bed with a wooden frame, a single blanket, and hospital-white bedsheets. “Are these the maid’s quarters or something?”
“The live-in nurse’s,” Angel said, apparently not getting the irony. “Ruth had cleansed the entire room the year before, so she stripped it down and ordered the furniture. The nurse cleaned out everything before she left, and she seemed like a happy girl….”
Tucker set his suitcases down, ran his fingers over the top of the clothes bureau, and closed his eyes. “She’s off to get married,” he said, smiling because weddings still made him happy. “And she loved Aunt Ruth, even if she thought the old bat was looney tunes.” He grimaced. “Abi the nurse’s words, not mine. But yeah. She was innocuous enough. I’ll be fine here.” Being an empath had its uses sometimes—getting a reading like that was one of them.
The room really was stripped down—the wallpaper had been removed and wood paneling installed, and the floor had been sanded to boards and then stained. Plain wood, spartan and unfettered with tragedy.
“It’s like she made it for me,” Tucker muttered. He toed off his shoes and placed them neatly at the foot of the bed, then pulled off his shirt and his jeans and folded them loosely to put on top of the dresser.
“What are you doing?” Angel sounded scandalized. “You’re not going to… to….” He made vague motions that got really specific just as he—ghostly apparition that he was—blushed.
Tucker squinted at him. He was looking less and less like Damie by the minute, and something about his slightly pointier features was getting more and more appealing.
“No, there is not going to be any sex for one here today,” he said, yawning. “I’m tired, Angel. It’s been a longassed day and it’s barely noon. I’m going to bed for an hour or three, and we can resume this stimulating discussion about how much of a life I won’t have just as soon as I wake up.”
“You’re tired?” Those wide eyes were going to kill him. They were becoming almost waifish, and when Tucker had had a type—male or female—that had been one of his types.
“Yes, my ghostly companion, because that is what happens when you have sex for hours instead of sleeping. Now, you can sit on the dresser or the end of the bed or go do your bills or watch yourself some TV—I’m uninterested in what you do without me as long as I get some shut-eye. So are we good?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Angel said, looking down like it wasn’t. “I’d assumed you’d want to start seeing the ghosts immediately, but anybody would be tired after the grand tide almost washed them away.”
“Grand tide?” Tucker asked, crawling into the blessedly clean sheets. The blanket was barely enough, and Tucker made a mental note to bring his own stuff—including blankets and camping gear—up to Foresthill.
“It’s the wash of souls that was pent up in the house. There’s an ebb and flow, you see—it’s why you can usually walk in the house and not be assaulted. The cleaning person was last here a couple of weeks ago, and they came in and out from the side entrance, so the ghosts got really backed up. Usually it’s different. They go out, and they go in, and when it’s their time to have their stories told, that’s when fate intervenes with an object for you to read.”
Tucker narrowed his eyes, feeling punchy and coquettish. “Are you fate? Come on… you can tell me. I won’t tell.”
Angel snorted. “You are tired. Go to sleep. Call when you need me. And Tucker!”
“Wha—” Tucker sat up, awake suddenly. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Sorry.” Angel looked almost comically chagrined. “Look. Don’t touch anything without me. This room is safe. Anything beyond this threshold could be dangerous.”
Angel regarded him with those sober green eyes—pretty green eyes—and Tucker groaned. God, no being attracted to the ghosts. “Just be here when I wake up, okay?” Because attractive or not, the ghost he knew was actually more comforting than nothing at all.
“Sure,” Angel said, and then he floated up to the top of the dresser, folded his legs, and rested his chin on his hands.
Tucker rolled up tight in the one blanket and closed his eyes. He was cold, the pillow was flat, and the mattress was as hard as a rock.
“The nurse slept here?” he asked, his eyes closed against the spartan room.
“Yes. She said it was restful.”
“She lied. I hope Aunt Ruth left her a buttload of money.”
Angel grunted. “She did, in fact. How did you know?”
Tucker could hear her thoughts, seeping through the flatiron of the pillow like acid through a table. She’d tried—but even the kindest people could be driven out of patience by someone who demanded the unreasonable. Damned old lady, does she think I trim her toenails for the hell of it? I’d better get some fucking money.
“She was not happy here,” Tucker muttered, even though Abi had tried hard to be kind. The contradiction between Abi’s happiness about getting married and her resentment of her employer was part and parcel of most contradictory humans—he was not surprised. “You know what would be nice? A puppy. Puppies are always kind. They want to lick your face. If I had any control of my own life, I’d want a puppy.”
“Do you think a dog would stay here?” Angel asked, surprised. “Dogs are very susceptible to psychic influences. I’d be afraid the grand tide would drive a dog insane.”
“God, you suck.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was my one good thought, asshole. I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation, and you give me ‘Oh, I’m sorry, your one ray of hope would be driven insane.’ It would have been awesome if you’d just bought into my little delusion for the span of a nap, you know?” Because little delusions had gotten him through since his parents had died and he’d realized that no part of his life would ever be his own again.
“I’m sorry,” Angel whispered. “You’re right. I’m not very… empathetic. It’s why places like this need people like you and your aunt.”
“Awesome. Well, I need a puppy.” Tucker had never wanted a dog before in his life, but suddenly, in this new place with the cold of the iron and the chill of the unhappy souls surrounding him, he wanted something. Something warm. Something that gave simply and expected only affection in return.
Tucker fell asleep dreaming of loyal, trusting eyes staring at him as he slept.
The eyes were green.
TUCKER AWOKE in the late afternoon.
The room had a window that faced north, into the riotous entropic garden, and the sun was enough to Tucker’s right that the west wing of the house cast a long shadow over the greenery. For a moment, as he lay staring into the world beyond the soul-trapping antique he slept in, he could see them. Women in Edwardian dresses walking, arms linked, along the garden path. A man wearing the uniform of a WWII aviator, gazing off into the sunset with melancholy in his eyes. Children sporting various periods of dress, darting around in what appeared to be a free-for-all game of hide-and-seek.